Beyond Thunderdome...

I’ve always found it endearing how much my husband loves me, and by me in this instance, I mean: my smell. We’ve slept on everything from cots, pull out couches, the floor, twin beds, you name it all the way on up to our now upgraded king-sized bed. It was always deliriously cute how he’d scootch over to snuggle and burrow his face into my hair, take a deep breath and sigh.

I realized it was my innate smell (similar to how a baby smells to their mother – sounds weird, but I can tell which of my kids wore something or used a blanket by its lingering aroma), one day a while back when I caught him napping. He was on my side of the bed, face buried in my pillow. It wasn’t my pillow you see – ours were the same. Couldn’t be that my side of the mattress was more comfortable…we rotate ours. Couldn’t be that side of the bed, which doesn't have a slanted ceiling – we’ve tried switching. It had to be my smell…he tried to get close to me even in his slumber. How freaking sweet! Captivating; even, that is…until last night.

Last night we had some massive thunderstorms roll through. I had already woken up. [sometimes it sucks being the only person in my house who doesn’t sleep like the dead] I was listening to the delightful sounds of the storm (I’m a T-storm junkie) and caught a few glimpses of lightning completely illuminating our bedroom. I slowly and begrudgingly drifted back into a peacefully contented sleep.

BANG! My head whacked my nightstand on the way down. “What in the hell?!?” I look over to find my husband, on my side of the bed, face once more submerged into my pillow. He had shoved me clear off the bed in his attempt to invade my personal sleeping space! This is not cute, it is not sweet, it is not endearing. IT WAS ENFURIATING! I went to bed late. I’ve been averaging four hours rest on a good night lately…and there he was mouth-breathing away into MY PILLOW. Christ, one of the reasons we got a king sized bed to begin with, was so that he could have a whole eight feet to himself and his gangly arms and legs, leaving me to occupy a measley 16 inched width and sleep hovering on the edge!

In a bold and rash move, I snatched the pillow from under his head and bashed him in the face with all the force my memory foam could muster. “GET THE HELL BACK ON YOUR OWN SIDE, MOUTH-BREATHER!” He sat up. He blinked. “My bad…” he mumbled. He rolled (and rolled, AND ROLLED – it’s a king sized bed, for God's sake) over and within another 60 seconds, he was mouth-breathing and snoring away. I fluffed my pillow and crawled back onto my soft cloud of heaven. I rolled. I tossed. I turned. Funny how that surge of adrenaline kept me up for another hour while he chopped broccoli until the cows came home.

In my fit of sleeplessness, I’ve discovered my ultimate end game. I’m going to stop showering. I may be dirty; but my pillow (and side of the bed for that matter) may just end up being mine after all.