tossing & turning

I have a vague memory of the Guy crawling into bed and scolding me over my last entry. "You can't write about real people. I'll get in trouble!"

At least, that's what I think he said. If so, it's a puzzler, because his chief complaint about my journal has always been that he thinks I make stuff up, or at least narrate the happenings of an imaginary world about which he has only a peripheral understanding. And now he wants me to write about fictional people?

Men. And they call women inconsistent.

I am not, shall we say, the most sedate sleeper in the world. I am not one of the people they hire for Sleep Comfort commercials, a slim, attractive woman with that mysterious ability to retain perfect hair and makeup even in sleep, all limbs gathered together in a graceful sine curve on the bed. This Immaculate Conception sleep style is charming, I'll admit. There's something about it that inspires thoughts of serenity, tranquility, and peace. There, you think, are people who get a good night's rest. People who have dreams about fluffy sheep jumping over fluffy fences. People who have only ever had sex twice -- one for each child -- in the orthodox missionary fashion, without ever doing anything so messy as exchange body fluids or engage in actual physical contact.

Me, my sleep style is more along the many-tentacled lines of Cthulhu, Lord of the Damned. What I do isn't so much "sleep" as I do "destroy." My sleep habits involve body parts. Flailing. Squirming. Strange sounds. They require space to expand, miles of blanket, and half a dozen pillows.

One arm must be free to hang out in the cold. One leg must be in contact with fresh air. There must be blanket trapped between my arms and legs.

All of this is done while I'm completely unconscious, of course. My sleeping body has a mind -- and an exuberantly homicidal energy -- of its own. Whatever my physical flailings, I usually wake up oblivious and refreshed, conscious of nothing more than a satisfying night's sleep.

This was fine in the days when bed was my sole property, unspoiled by the encroachments of third parties. In my college days, when I lived in a dorm and slept on the second story of a two-story bed, the only people who incurred injuries from my thrashing were me and the floor. Now that the bed is supposedly communal property however, my nighttime disco is starting to infringe on the health, sanity, and general well-being of the Guy, who has started to wake up earlier and earlier, and come to bed later and later.

This may have something to do with fact that when someone else is in my bed, I cannot sleep unless I am oppressing him. Physically. Two nights ago, as I was slowly drifting off to sleep, I felt a soft, tentative poke on my hip. Then another.

From underneath my shoulder came a piteous little voice. "Why do you have to sleep on my head?"

Even when unconscious, the moment I feel someone else slide into the bed, I promptly roll over and squash as much of the other body as I can. Or so I am told by one who is in a position to know. It is true that from time to time I have roused myself out of a sound sleep because of the sharp smacking sound of my arm colliding with the Guy's face. Or throat. Or chest. And let's not go into where I wake to find I've lodged my feet.

This sort of expansionist sleeping style is a product of my youth, I suppose. My personality back then was far less mellow than it is now; I was prone to outbursts of emotion, temper, and an irritating itch -- now identified as a genetically transmitted Japanese predisposition -- to conquer and possess neighboring real estate.

My sister complained more about the snoring. I suspect this is why she is now a lumberjack; the buzzing of the saw is a trip down nostalgia lane.

Last night, drifting off to sleep after Return of the King at the movie theater -- good show, by the way -- the Guy started to twitch and wriggle in place. Since the lower half of my body was sprawled out comfortably over the entirety of his, this failed to escape my notice.

"What are you doing?" I demanded crossly.

"Settling. I settle. I always do this."

"You don't."

"I do. I knead my way into the bed. Like a cat."

"You never did it before."

"I did," he said. "I always did. Except I couldn't because you were suppressing me."

I punched him and dozed off. There's no room for other people to express their individuality in my bed.

We're headed for Seattle on Monday, which means today is probably the last day I have to wish you all a happy religious or professional holiday of your choice. I'm not picky.

Enjoy the vacation, and I'll see you all when I get back. With Mom.

God help me.