Staying up all night doing one or more of the aforementioned vices will only speed up the process. The best thing for you is a good night's sleep, but in my case, that can be even more hazardous to my health.

I suffer from sleep apnea, which is an old Greek word that means "without breathing."

Apparently during my nightly snore-fests I sometimes lose track of the old inhale/exhale routine that tends to keep a person alive.

For my wife, any snore stoppage would normally be welcomed with open, albeit tired arms. She is the one who bears the brunt of my vociferous snorts and snuffles, a cacophonous mingling of the natural and the mechanical, as in equal parts wild Asiatic water buffalo in heat and a two-stroke Toro lawn tractor in mid mow. But it's the absence of respiration thing that is somewhat troubling.

Now, I could always refer to this as my "alleged" snoring, since I personally have never witnessed its wrath, but my wife is not alone in her frustration. I have had numerous friends over the years flip coins to avoid having to share a hotel room with me. I secretly hope for the one with the worst aim to win, since it inevitably ends up with footwear being thrown in my general direction.

So last Wednesday I brushed my teeth, said my goodnights, grabbed a good book and my special pillow and walked across the street to the sleep center, where I was shown to a clean, comfortable room from where I would be monitored via video-cam and intercom.

First up came the pre-snooze prep, where they attached sensor after sensor to selected body parts until I had more wires coming out of me than the back of some geek's computer.

Then it was back to my room to settle in and get as relaxed as one can while feeling like some mad professor's neuroscience experiment.

All was well until I had to use the bathroom. Why didn't I think of this before I got all wired up? Better yet, why did I have that beer with dinner? Probably because they suggested I follow my normal nightly routine before checking in. Of course, my normal routine would not involve getting to bed at nine o'clock, but with an opportunity to snore my adenoids off uninterrupted, well, I've been dreaming of this for some time.

Falling asleep was the easy part. Getting up for a bathroom run wasn't. I felt like a 2-year-old with a baby monitor, asking for someone to come unplug me so I could waddle off to the men's room, wires in tow.

After half a night's worth of major log sawing, and a few forays into real live apnea (unless one considers actual breathing as a pre-requisite for life), the attendant put me on "the machine."

Called "CPAP," for "Clamped Permanently About Probiscis" I would presume, the machine ensured I would breathe only through my nose the remainder of the night.

It took a little getting used to, but it was nothing I couldn't do again … like every night … for the rest of my life.

That fate remains to be decided. I will be hearing from my doctor any day now. As for my wife, she hopes to not be hearing from me any night now.

Until that time comes, if you're passing through my neighborhood and happen to see my walls rattling, don't be alarmed. It's only me, enjoying my final days as a snoring enthusiast.