Sunday, February 19, 2017

Dear Sleeping Fiancé

Things with you and me have been super keen awesome since we started dating.  They were so good that we decided to move in together.  That's a big step for any couple, because living in proximity to each other 24/7 can expose the warts in any relationship.  Thankfully, the worst thing we ran into for awhile was a situation of assured mutual destruction involving snoring.  That venue, in the dark of night in our bedroom, cultivated a new horror.  Many times, I thought you would wake, and I would talk with you, or you with me.  The next morning, though, upon questioning, the truth would come to light.  You never actually wake up, and you are evil while you sleep.

The first sign of trouble happened with the snores.  You fell asleep while I was reading, and regaled me with the song of the sea, if the sea sounded like a wrench in a garbage disposal.  This continued for half an hour or so, until you rolled over and mumbled that I was keeping you awake.  Slowly, I lowered my Kindle and looked to you. 

"You were asleep for awhile there" I said, slightly confused.

"No I wasn't" you said matter of factly.

"You were snoring.  Very loudly.  The cat got scared."

"I wasn't snoring.  I wasn't asleep."

We looked at each other for several moments, not knowing where to go from there.  You took the initiative.

"Stop reading.  I want to sleep."  Then, you rolled over, and started snoring within a minute.

Little moments like this happened here and there, but the cold of winter seemed to suss out your sleep anger better than anything.  I awoke one night to find you ensconced in the blanket and both comforters, like a happy little warm burrito.  I found an edge and slowly tried to take back some modicum of warmth, but sleepy Shay Shay decided that this should not be. 

"What are you doing?" you growled from inside your cocoon.

"Can I have some of the blankets?" I pleaded, putting Oliver Twist to shame with my earnestness. 

"You have them all."

I laughed as I thought you were joking, but you followed with "I'm cold, I need more" and you snuggled even tighter into your nest of betrayal.  I was forced to get an afghan from the living room, hoping that in your infinite mercy that you wouldn't steal that too.

Other nights you would simply respond to questions in various grunts and growls, leaving only the icy cold of your response to overshadow the icy cold of your nighttime demeanor.  By far, though, the worst incident came recently.  Late into the night, I awoke to find myself lying on my side, teetering shockingly close to the edge of the bed.  You, in turn, were sprawled out luxuriously across the massive expanse of real estate you had conquered like a slumbering British empire.  I tentatively inched away from the edge, only to have you sluggishly push back.  I could gain no ground, so I reached over and shook your arm.

"Baby, you need to give me some space here.  I'm laying on the edge of the bed." 

Like any good orator or mattress dictator, you knew that brevity and a lack of mercy were key to domination.   You sighed, looked over to me, and laid me to waste with two words.

"Live dangerously."

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