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The punch line takes a while, but it’s a good ride

I was tired and crabby when I went to bed last night. It wasn’t really very late, but I was exhausted anyway. I grimaced as I walked down the hall because I could hear My Honey snoring the paint off the walls. My husband is a snorer of Olympic proportions. He’s legendary. Does he listen to his wife about going to the doctor? No, no he does not. And don’t any of you helpful internet people give me any bullshit suggestions like putting those ridiculous strips on his nose. Did that. Effing useless. It doesn’t matter what position he’s in either. He snores in every position. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. Even when I’m covering his face with a pillow.

I kid. I’ve not done that and I’m not going to admit it on this blog if I’d even considered it. Not with the FBI trolling here all the time because of a few cavalier comments made about panda bears. Bla bla bla national security my ass.

ANYWAY.

There are only a few options available to me if he’s in bed snoring away before I get there.

Option 1. Time it perfectly to climb into bed the very instant he hits one of those brief stages of sleep where his

snoring is severely diminished.

Option 2. Shove earbuds in my ears and go to sleep with my iPod playing loud music. I can sleep with this. I can not sleep with snoring. I’ve been known to sleep with Rob Thomas – with or without Matchbox Twenty. Also, the Irish punk band Dropkick Murphys. I know. You’re thinking that’s insane that I can sleep with that nonsense going on but not snoring. Punk music rarely makes me feel murderous. Fill in your own blanks.

The worse possible scenario is when he has rolled onto his side facing my side of the bed. At that point, I’d have a better chance of sleeping with a platoon of Marines marching over the bed. That leads me to Option 3.

snoringOption 3. Poke and kick my beloved hoping he’ll turn over until he wakes up and gets mad. At that point, I pretend to be asleep and have no idea what he’s talking about when he wakes up all indignant. That’s what he gets.

Option 3 was what I faced last night.

I poked him excessively. When he woke up – very annoyed (imagine my expression) – I told him to roll over.

“I can’t,” he said. “I hurt my shoulder and can’t sleep on that side.” Then he promptly returned to snoring. In my face.

Even the dogs have been known to leave at this point.

I tried. I really did. I turned on The Foo Fighters and begged Dave Grohl to lull me into senselessness. It wasn’t happening so I snatched up my pillow in a huff and stomped off to my martyr bed – the miserable couch.

This evening I kissed him goodnight. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t snore like that again tonight.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” He looked like he meant it, too. “But I really hurt my shoulder; I could hardly move my arm all day. Wanna hear how I did it?”

I rolled my eyes. “Was it in the service of doing something for me? No? Then I don’t care.”

He smiled. “No, you want to hear this.”

I huffed a heavy breath, shoved my hand on my hip and said, “Fine. Tell me.”

His grin grew wider. “I sneezed really hard.”

Holy shit we’re old.

 

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