You know you’re in for a long night when no one has uttered a word in the last 45 minutes, and you’d rather click the “next blog” link over and over again on Blogger than go upstairs, where the bedroom has all the sudden become the size of a prison cell.
Last night I composed in my head a witty and articulate essay on why sleeping in separate bedrooms would be totally cool (note to self: take notes! that crap was funny!) and it had to do with snoring and waking up 23 thousand times every.single.night to either gently shake M awake or, if it’s late enough, throw an elbow in the direction of the horrible noise. There was also a bit in there about not having to share the remote (I know, I know, love is sharing the remote. well I guess you can do the math) and having covers all to oneself. But I totally left out the most important perk! Going to bed as pissed as you want, whenever you want, without racing for dibs on the bed!
See, now I can’t go up there. Territory has been marked, the remote has been claimed. There can be no snuggling sullenly under the covers, no bitchily navigating to Oprah or Dr. Phil or Law & Order SVU, or worse, Criminal Intent. Nope. Now, if I venture up there, a Discussion will ensue.
Goddamn these newfangled one-bed traditions.
Well. At least I’m not ovulating.