Sunday, January 27, 2013

Nightime Nomad

It wasn’t until my mid-forties that I began sleeping around.
 
My wife and I were having difficulties in the bedroom.  I was restless; tired of our routine.
 
It all began innocently enough with a couple one night stands.  They were awkward and uncomfortable at first.  Before long, the unfamiliar became familiar, and I had adopted it as a way of life, waking two or three times per week in a strange bed.

Ironically, my liaisons rarely took me outside the comfort of my own home.  Each different location that I explored held its own special allure and charm.

My first experiences were in our finished basement.  The couch there converted into a queen size hide-a-bed which provided plenty of room to spread out.  Unfortunately, the thin mattress provided insufficient protection against the metal framework digging into my back and ribcage.  Plus the work of removing the cushions, pulling out the bed, and adding sheets and a blanket destroyed any hope for spontaneity.  Still it was dark, and private, and quiet.

Eventually I became bolder and moved upstairs.  The living room couch was extra wide with sturdy foam cushions which made it ultra-comfortable.  The problem there was the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the front yard.  Not that anyone was likely to be peering in during the wee hours, but privacy was certainly an issue.

Although the upstairs family room was outfitted with dark window shades, the standard length of the couch there prevented me from fully extending the whole of my six foot frame.  At 52 years, the prospect of keeping my knees bent for an extended period was problematic, not to mention awkward.  Plus the couch’s standard depth made it difficult to roll over and switch positions without falling off.

I’m ashamed to say that from time-to-time, I would even wait until my youngest daughter was sound asleep, and steal into her top bunk. I was never able to fully relax there either, ever fearful that my nocturnal gyrations might wake her. 

But of all the myriad scenarios I explored, the one I longed for more than any other was when my wife would take the kids to her parents for a sleepover, and I’d get the whole house to myself.  Spending time in my own bed was a wicked pleasure unrivaled by any other venue I dared explore.

I realize how awful this must sound.  And make no mistake – my wife and I still love each other.  We just make incompatible bedfellows.

Needless to say, I found myself becoming a sneak.  Not so much because I was afraid of being discovered, but more because of the pain such a discovery would cause her.

In the first place, my wife is a Virgo.  As such, she keeps our home ready to receive an HGTV camera crew at a moment’s notice.  For that reason, each morning I would rise early and cover my tracks like a Navy Seals assassin.  After tidying up the couch, I’d re-fluff the pillows and cushions, then make sure any blankets I used were folded just so.

But even with all of my surreptitious maneuvers, I knew I couldn’t keep deceiving her for long.  She was too clever… too observant.

Sure enough, one night when she couldn’t sleep, she wandered into the living me and caught me red handed.  It was the moment I had long anticipated yet feared most.  I was ashamed, but at the same time relieved the charade was finally over.

I could see the pain on her face; tears held back by pride alone.

“How could you?” she said in barely a whisper.

No words would come.  I was dumbstruck.

“I… I…  I love you.”  I stammered.

“And this is how you show it?” she said, the shock of what she had just witnessed shaking her to the core.

I felt two inches tall.  I knew that no matter how painful it might be, I owed her the truth.  So I mustered all my courage and said what I should have told her long ago.

“Honey – I love you.  But you left me no choice.  Your snoring makes it impossible for me to sleep.”

As a testament to her strength of character, she didn’t get angry.  In fact, she was so genuinely concerned for my well-being that she insisted I sleep elsewhere from that point on, going so far as to let our sound sleeping nine year old assume my position in our marital bed.

She’s special, that wife of mine.  I’m lucky to have her.  And even though my daughter’s stuffed-animal- strewn bunk bed isn’t nearly as comfortable as my own, sleepover night at grandma’s is never far away.