And the hubby can vouch for that. In triplicate. Signed and attested by any notary of your choosing. I guess he probably wishes he’d asked for a trial run before buying the goods so he could return them and get a full refund on day two of purchase.
Anyway, the fact remains I am a deep sleeper. Read, I am the kind of sleeper who is probably a direct descendent thrice removed from Rip Van Winkle. I am the kind of sleeper who has been known to fall asleep hanging on a train strap in a crowded peak hour Mumbai local train, get up right before she needs to get off, fresh and immune to the curses of the unfortunate soul next to her, who supported her slack weight while she snored off her woes. I am the kind of sleeper who couldnt for the life of her remember whether she had put the child back in the cradle after the one zillion midnight feeds, and felt the bed next to her in a cold sweat kind of panic to check whether she had rolled over the fruit of the womb while in the throes of Morpheus.
Therefore. The husband is deserving of a glittering crown with the sash reading “Most tolerant Co-sleeper” slipped on. I dont think he can quite carry off the tears and the delicate patting of face with the tissue though. Though he might just well cry thinking of the years of indignities he has been subjected to. The least of which include being pushed to the very edge of the bed by obstinate sprawling all over the bed kind of deep sleep which brooks no awakening through pushing, shoulder shaking, and other such meek ruses, and is only solved by him physically pushing me to my side of the bed through a heave ho process much the same as employed by them poor slaves in the shifting of them massive stone slabs hauled across the desert to put them Pyramids up.
In the good old days of my adolescence one of the anecdotes that has made its permanent place in the fixture of the “Oh God, dont tell me” stories about self is the day when I returned home from school and went off to sleep, on the divan right next to the main door in the living room. And slept and slept and slept. In fact slept so much that the mother returned home from work and rang the doorbell. And hammered the door. And yelled for me. And neighbours climbed up pipes to try and get to the window to check if I was alive and well inside. I had also in a moment of misplaced concerns for my safety, me being latchkey kid and all, bolted the door from within so it couldnt be opened with the key. Just when the fire brigades were being summoned and the neighbours were fanning my mother, who had collapsed into a faint on the stairway, I awoke and opened the door casually to see what the commotion outside the door was all about. Needless to say, I was forbidden from latching the door ever again, and neighbours given the strict duty of ensuring that I did not open the door to strange people.
Then there was the other mammoth event, which guaranteed me a permanent place in the hall of deep sleepers fame. The day I fell asleep in the afternoon post lunch on a Saturday and awoke the next morning at 11 am. I think back to those days with the kind of awe most people reserve for WWF wrestlers in their prime.
The husband has learnt through bitter experience that if his eyes open before mine he is not to make a moue or even dare sneeze for fear of waking me. Hell hath no fury like a me woken before my shut eye is up. He learnt this the hard way when he decided he would go to the gym at 6 am and decided that I should awake like the dutiful wife he thought I was, and make him a cup of tea. Suffice to say, he took his mangled ears to the doctor to be stitched back onto his scalp and has never since repeated the request.
These are sad days when the eyes open at 5 am, though the man giving the prayer call from the mosque a short distance away might have something to do with it. And then the loudspeakers blaring droneful religious songs that go on and on and on…..and then the nightmares that plague me of waking up and seeing myself having ballooned into a beached whale gets me up and changed and walking shoes on before the alarm goes off.
So anyway, to come back to the horrific picture as presented in the title. I am now informed by the longsuffering husband that I have taken to snoring. While a part of me did the Phtoey to you, and now you know what it feels like jig right back at him, another part of me shrank away from myself in horror. Did this mean I was now officially one of those horrific old ladies snoring away to oblivion with drool and dribble running down their chins?
I didnt sleep a couple of nights in sheer terror and the next night I couldnt keep my eyes open beyond nine pm. So I picked my pillow and my blanket and drifted off into the land of nod. Where, frankly, I couldnt care about how loudly I snored, or how much drool I drenched the pillow with, or whether I presented an altogether inelegant picture sprawled across the bed or whether the room vibrated with the resonance of my sleep apnea.
Do you think separate bedrooms are now in order?