Sunday, August 1, 2010

And when I finally fell asleep....

Last night, I was asleep. I mean, ASLEEP. Flat-out, cheek-stuck-to-the-pillowcase-with-drool, total REM dream state, probably-snoring-but -certainly-hoping-not sleep. Precious, beautiful, elusive sleep. Can I get a witness from all you insomniacs out there? When Mr. Sandman finally comes to visit, you welcome him with open arms and the offer to put your 600 thread count sheets on the guest bed to tempt him to stay awhile.

In the midst of my slumber, I felt an urgent elbow digging me somewhere in the vicinity of my kidneys.

"Honey," whispered a voice that I groggily identified as my husband's. "HONEY?"

"Whad?" I slurred, woozy with sleep. (Precious, precious sleep...) "Whad's the madder?"

"I'm cold," said my husband, and then more loudly, "I'M COLD."

"Whadderyer mean, cold?" I said, coming back to consciousness and none too pleased about it.

"I'm cold. My feet and all. Everything is cold in here," he elaborated, and only because I was so lovely warm and comfortable was I able to resist pinching him, which would have required turning over and I am PHOBIC about being tangled up in a nightgown: if I want to turn over in the night, I get out of the bed, rearrange my pillows and climb back in again without being trapped, mermaid-fashion, by my nightie. It's a problem I have.



"Are you kidding me? You woke me up to tell me you're cold?"

"No, I am not kidding. Here, feel my feet." And he put his icy hooves over on my side of the bed and TOUCHED ME WITH THEM, which I understand to be a defense for spousicide in at least seven states, maybe ten.


"Oh. Okay," he replied, and used his toes, which are at least six inches long each and function like a second set of hands, to pull the blanket from the foot of the bed up to his chin. "Oh, that's much better," he said, and fell asleep instantly.

I laid there for another forty-five minutes or so with my wide-open eyes staring into the darkness and thought about the menu at Bob Evans and what I would order -- scrambled eggs with bacon and toast? An omelette? -- the next morning when I made him take me out for breakfast.


Amy said...

You could have stayed home for breakfast and whipped up something in an iron skillet -- like the side of his head. I would have KILLED him or at least helped you hide the body if you did it before I got there.

Not Jane said...

OMG!!! As a rather new insomniac I would KILL for certain if my man did that to me. You are officially a saint in my book.