Last night I ended up curled awkwardly and grumpily on the living room couch. I have this eerie feeling it won't be my last couch sleep.
Before people start sending me numbers for marriage counsellors, I wish to be clear that I still love Fatty. I may be glaring at his back today; I may be somewhat clipped in my responses. I may even be considering performing some radical palatal and tonsillar surgery on him, in the kitchen, without anaesthetic (I suppose that's a little harsh, isn't it? I'll give him an anaesthetic lozenge). Yet, despite these seemingly ominous signs, I consider myself happily married. At least during daytime hours.
I knew Fatty was a snorer when I married him. I figured I would eventually get used to it. And I have, for the most part. Having kids has made me so tired, I fall into slumber most nights within seconds. If I happen to wake to a rumbling sound beside me, I just jiggle the bed until the rumble stops, and I am asleep again in seconds.
I have failed to factor in the worsening of this problem, though. I stupidly didn't consider the fact we would both get older, greyer, saggier, and, in Fatty's case, snorier. When I vowed to love Fatty for better or for worse, I never imagined that vow referred to the nocturnal truck-gear-grinding noises that would one day emanate from my husband.
I never imagined that I would lie awake, as I did in the dawn hours this morning, wishing I had a giant MUTE button for dear Fatty. Now wouldn't that be helpful?
I could even lend him the mute button to use on me, for when I whine too much. Which is hardly ever.