Bright lights. Loud voices. Raucous laughter, people cracking up/choking on their own stupid guffawing (that’s all her TV, btw). High winds bursting through town as a motorcycle get kick started over and over again (okay, that’s me, my fan and my snoring).
Every night it’s like unrolling your sleeping in bag out in the center of Time Square.
And for Monica and I it often seems as if sleeping in the same room with each other is some ridiculous social experiment with no payoff; it’s like some insane test to see how to squeeze out a just a few more hours of time together, as if time spent passed out side by side might allow for the ties that bind to grow and evolve.
The longer I’m married, the more I realize that being married is a lot like raising kids. If you try and do everything according to all the unsolicited horsecrap other people are constantly hurling at you, you end up making yourself nuts. Good parents realize pretty early on that they are going to need to improvise and bend the rules according to their own guts.
I’m starting to view marriage that way, too.
Unrolling your sleeping bag in Times Square indeed.
Since our very first days of living together in Brooklyn I have dreamed of a slumber unencumbered by the nightly offenses committed by my life mate. A slumber free from snoring that would put the burliest of lumberjack’s chainsawing to shame. A sleep during which I could drift off on a wave of canned laughter floating freely from TV tubes glowing ghostly blue and lovingly massaging neurotic thoughts into oblivion. Instead I am trapped in a horror chamber of white noise screaming from the fan he insists on firing up each night.
But choosing to sleep in another room, a room without my husband, seems wrong and yet sometimes it feels so right. So, so right. Still, I want so badly to look forward to climbing into bed with my best pal and unwinding after a hard day of kid wrangling. Problem is, our respective ideas of unwinding rarely overlap.
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