All That to Say: In Search of a Good Night's Sleep or a Point

I have a friend, Luann Dolan, who writes a delightful blog about life, and mixes in some ridiculously awesome recipes that you should try.

Recently she wrote about what it is like to try (notice I said TRY!) to fall asleep when you are married to someone who sleeps in a totally different way than you do . . . seriously though, does ANY couple sleep in the same way?

For example, Mike is a spooner (Doug Jackson, keep your jokes in your head.  Everyone knows the joke about spooning and forking).  He likes to spoon (I'm not kidding, Doug.)

I, on the other hand, cannot be touched if I am trying to sleep.  But Mike has this incredibly annoying habit of putting his arm across my torso or his leg across my legs, a move which is suffocating and makes me feel as though I am being tortured by someone wielding hairy weights.

Sometimes, when I am feeling incredibly generous, I will allow Mike to spoon for about 5 minutes, and then I start panic breathing and he gets the idea and rolls over to his side of the bed.

Not only can I not be touched while asleep, Mike cannot face me.  I can feel him breathing on me or worse yet,  SNORING on me, and I want to punch him in the neck.  A fact I am not proud of, but one that is true.

And he is like a brick oven when he sleeps.  And by that, I mean he's hot.  (I don't actually know if a brick oven is hot. I just imagine it to be, and in my mind it's a blazing furnace and what I imagine the heat from his body to be akin to.)  I can't sleep when I'm hot.  It makes me angry.

So to recap, I can't be touched.  I can't be breathed or snored on.  And I can't be hot.  Or I may or may not be slightly prone to violence that may or may not involve wanting to punch my beloved husband.

And lest you want to judge my sleeping needs too harshly, I'd like to share a little bit of something I shared with Luann on her blog, regarding Mike's freakish idiosyncrasy regarding our ceiling fan.

On occasion, (okay, almost NEVER)  I go to bed before Mike, and when I do, I turn on the fan because, well, it is delightful.  delightful.  And I fall asleep to the gentle hum and the rhythmic click, click, click.  And the ever so subtle sway of a breeze that blows my hair in such a way that super models would be envious.  And just when I'm about to go to sleep, he comes in, realizes that the fan is on, and sighs heavily, as though the earth is coming to an end, and the fan being off was our only hope of saving the world, and I ruined the world by turning on the fan. 

The man has a problem with the fan being on.  I mean, a big problem with the fan being on.  Any fan.  In any room.  At any time of the day.  They are a personal affront to his dignity and cause near cataclysmic death stares from him not to mention the sigh (I did mention the sigh, right?)

All that to say, . . . I don't actually have anything to say.  No point.  Whatsoever.  But like my friend, Luann, I'll just end with "marriage is awesome."  (that's a paraphrase, Lu.)