At the end of a long, busy day--chock full of family care and household management and part-time work and exercise and...the other unidentified stuff that somehow occupies all of my time--nothing pleases me more than climbing into bed, tugging the covers up to my chin, curling into a ball, and falling deeply into a restful, restorative slumber. (Can I get an "amen"...or at least a yawn of total agreement?) Now, over the years Husband and I have learned to deal with some of the standard "sharing a sleeping space with another human being" issues. Such as: unlike back in the (waaayyy) bygone Courting Days, when it was cute and romantic to snuggle with tangled limbs all night long, I now require a restricted-zone around my person in order to achieve blissful unconsciousness. Forget snuggling--no wandering elbows or feet allowed within range after lights-out. (Hence the purchase of a King-sized bed pretty much the second after we signed the mortgage papers for our house all those years ago.) And of course we experience the typical Male/Female conundrum with regards to temperature. Husband prefers to retire in skivvies, whereas my bedtime wardrobe runs the gamut from a breezy t-shirt/shorts combo in the Summer to light long-sleeved, long-pants pjs Spring and Fall...to full on fleece body armor for Winter. And the possible permutations for sheets and blankets--weights, materials, textures? Don't even get me started!
Yet, with occasional negotiation and compromise we've been able to resolve these little differences over the years and continue occupying the same mattress (albeit each on our own sides, happily snoozing away). However...the other night we had both turned in at the same time (a rare occurrence, as Husband tends to keep later hours than I do). I was just drifting off into dreamland, when I was shocked back into alertness by the Most. Horrible. Noise. It was a loud, strident kind of sound...emanating suspiciously from the direction of Husband's pillow. The best way I can describe it for you is: picture Chewbacca. Now visualize someone poking him with a big stick, and the kind of vocal protest that would ensue. It was just like that. Clearly, something had to be done immediately to end the torment. (And by that, I mean MINE. Although to be honest, in my head I was thinking, "Oh, go ahead and KILL the Wookie, already! Too harsh? You lucky you didn't hear it...shudder...) So I took the obvious route...and jabbed Husband in the ribs. Before you get all, "that's spousal abuse! what's wrong with you?"--we have actually agreed upon this tactic as an acceptable one in the (thankfully) rare instances when Husband snores (usually temporarily, due to a head cold). So what I'm saying is: he's OKAY with it, people! In this case, though, the punishment--that is "behavioral encouragement"--sadly had no effect whatsoever on Chewie.
But as I lay there, tensed for another wail of...snotty-nosed-pain...or whatever...Husband finally got the message (I might have gently whacked him on the shoulder in the interim, just as another subtle, loving hint that he should roll over and shut the heck up, right this minute) and heaved himself onto his side, putting a blessed end to the racket. Of course, I haven't the foggiest IDEA how a 5 foot 11, 145 pound man can rattle an entire bedframe--somewhat like the Titanic hitting that dang iceberg, I imagine--in the simple act of rolling over. It must be a special gift...but that's a whole other story.
Don't get me wrong, of course I'm sympathetic to someone who's not feeling well and thereby prevented from experiencing a peaceful night of sleep. All I'm saying is...next time I'm considering bringing a lightsaber to bed...that'll teach the Wookie!