Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Waking. Middle Aged. With Pet.






It was dark outside 
when the husband leaned in close
and whispered 
in my ear.



I was laying in the preferred position.
I was on my stomach, which I knew, made it as flat as a supermodel's stomach.
My right arm was stretched out above my head and my hand
was numb, dead, completely asleep.

One leg was outside the covers, just a little bit too cold.
One leg was inside the covers, just a little bit too hot.
And then, suddenly, it was 2000 degrees in the bedroom.
I threw all of the covers off of me.
5 minutes later I would pull them back.
Because the room would be freezing.

I turned my head and my cheek landed in
the wet drool spot on the pillow.
I turned my leg and soon
regretted that extra set of
lunges from the day before.

It had been a good sleep, relatively speaking, of course.
I only woke up once to pee.
I then only worried about
three things that I had
absolutely no control over
before
I

finally

fell back asleep

....27 minutes before the alarm went off.

It was a solid 5 hours of restless tossing.




The husband had to go to work.
The alarm went off at 4:40.
He showered, went downstairs and ate the Cheerios.
He surveyed the living room as he
made his way back upstairs.

He saw the things that he saw.
And he kept on walking.


He innocently brushed his teeth.
He casually turned off the bathroom light.
He approached the bed, with hesitation.
He approached the content and peaceful

(anxious, hellishly hot, restless, sore, numb, wet-cheeked) 

sleeping woman.

He wanted to say goodbye.



The kind, well-intentioned husband leaned in close and whispered in my ear.
He rubbed my shoulder gently and kissed me softly, apologetically.
I did not respond with enthusiasm in a futile attempt to avoid
the inevitable full wake up that was coming.

But he felt obligated to give a proper farewell.


'I'm leaving.  Do you want me to reset the alarm?" he generously purred.

"No, I'm getting up," I grumbled.

"Ok.

Well.

Um.


............just to let you know,



The cat has thrown up
all over the couch.

It's pretty nasty."


I swear he screamed it in my ear.
He remembers whispering those words, somehow, in the most romantic way possible.

I remember my paralyzed, resigned silence.

He quivered in fear, awaiting my response.
Or maybe, he just finished putting his shoes on.

I swear I heard his sigh of relief as he ran out the door.







The husband went to work.
I cleaned up the nasty.
He pretended to feel bad.
I pretended to feel put out.

We laughed about it at dinner.
Well, he mostly laughed about it at dinner.
It took me another day.
Because it was super nasty.
I wasn't done gagging, yet.

But eventually, I managed a chuckle.

Because that's what you do
when you've been married 29.43 years
and you are not young anymore
and you have a pet that likes to ralph all over the place.



You just have to laugh.

Every day.




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