You remember when Brad and I lived in Ottawa, and we had that giant bed made out of two double mattresses? And I had to custom-make double-double sheets to fit? And we used two separate comforters?
(because I had recently punched Brad in my sleep, and he couldn't handle being within 3 feet of my prone body anymore?)
Well, after we hit the big leagues and became fully employed, we splurged and bought a European pillow top KING-sized bed. Oh, heaven. We also bought a king-sized down duvet (and had a second one given to us as a present) and so now luxuriate in feathery goodness every single night. That's pillow top on the bottom, three feet between us, and two feather duvets on top. Like I said, heaven.
For a while there, we were allowing some pets to sleep with us, but eventually decided to walk the hard line and kick all those moochers off our mound of fluffy goodness. Having all that room in bed is no good if you have a cat on either side of your head, a dog lying lengthwise along your torso, and another curled up behind your knees. Like I said, moochers.
So when the furred beasts were banished, Brad and I were looking forward to some uninterrupted, peaceful, deep and satisfying sleep.
But we forgot that I'm a sleep talker. And not just a sleep talker in the regular sense, but an angry one at that. Perhaps it's a comment on my general attitude, but it doesn't take much for me to get angry while sleeping and then wake up in full-on fight mode. Especially if the witness to my waking dares to tell me that I was dreaming, and that there is no spider crawling in my pajamas, that none of the puppies have escaped from the puppy pen, and that said witness did not just place a very long, red, shiny and disgusting lobster leg on my pillow, just to gross me out.
Because I'm half awake, you know, the whole time I'm flopping my pillow up and down, pulling the sheets off the bed, jumping and shaking out my pajamas just in case the repugnant object has somehow managed to cling to my clothes, or worse -- my hair.
And this whole time, I'M CONVINCED THERE WAS A GODDAMN LOBSTER LEG ON MY PILLOW (IT WAS JUST THERE!! YOU CAN'T TELL ME YOU DIDN'T SEE IT!!!) AND THAT MY SPOUSE IS JUST BEING DELIBERATELY OBTUSE ABOUT IT.
And then there's always that moment when I realize that I was dreaming, but don't want to admit it. In fact, I usually flat out REFUSE to admit it until the lights are all on, the bed is stripped and I cannot for the life of me find the object of offense.
But, you know, I still don't think that shrieking at Brad for putting a crustacean's limb into my personal face-space is foolish (this is coming from a girl whose husband once chased her into their apartment complex hallway with his own poo in hand just because she told him she didn't think he'd do it). No, it's ... justified. Honestly, if given the chance, Brad would put something really horrific within my general periphery, just to get a laugh.
But the truth is, the only time Brad will ever be happy about being woken up in the middle of the night is if I'm having a nightmare and he can laugh at me in all my ridiculousness. Sometimes, if I'm sleep talking and he's awake enough, he'll join in the conversation, just to mess me up. It's not like I ever remember these conversations in the morning (unless I end up waking up in the middle of them), so a part of me always wonders what psychological trauma he's been inflicting on my poor, defenseless brain in the darkest hours of the night.
He could be the real reason why I'm crazy, after all. All those spousal cliches aside, he may just be the key to my insanity ...