There’s no doubt that there are certain times in a marriage – like right now as the old man’s feelings of disdain and disappointment penetrate the bedroom wall because I am still in bed at 10am on a Saturday morning – that prove more testing than others. But if Trump thinks he’s got problems with Melania, he needs to get some proper perspective.
My snoring problem is dragging us towards an awkward low point in our relationship that I could never have envisaged at the altar twenty-five years ago when we carelessly promised to love each other “in sickness and in health,” without first consulting the small print.
Last night, I was awoken by the brutal sensation of something flicking at my nose, a physical abuse that the old man denies – he says I was dreaming – nevertheless, still an act of desperation on his part that I won’t be able to forgive quickly.
He has admitted (under the influence of alcohol) that there have been several occasions in the middle of the night as he has listened to my Darth Vader impression, that he has plotted my murder; and the only other time in our relationship when he came close to such impassioned feelings about my existence was when I almost killed him with food poisoning.
He has never been able to look a bacon and mushroom risotto in the eye since then.
I have no idea why I’ve suddenly started snoring, and my anxiety refuses to lead me down the terrifying route of potentially life-threatening medical reasons such as sleep apnoea – WHICH CAN KILL YOU – but when your own husband has considered taking that option into his own hands, it gets you thinking.
Like, perhaps he should invest in some decent earplugs?
There is, of course, another option, because we are fortunate to have a spare bedroom in our current home. The problem is, neither of us is willing to contemplate it as a serious solution and move out. And probably not for the reasons you might assume, because one thing we do agree on is that the potential risk of less intimacy doesn’t come close to the importance of a good night’s sleep.
Both of us like our own bed, and particularly our (only successful joint furniture) purchase of the mattress we bought a few years back, that has since been sculpted perfectly into the shape of our three bodies. In my view, a good mattress is one of the key components to a happy life, and the mattress in the spare room is an old one that the kids and their friends have spewed, weed and no doubt done other stuff on while we’ve been away. We also NEED to have an ensuite a stone’s throw away – because middle-aged bladders – and we like the security of having the dog between us to keep us warm in winter and to bark in the middle of the night each time a leaf drops.
Neither of us is prepared to give up the sanctuary of the master bedroom – not for the sake of our marriage or his sanity – which means our little problem has turned into something resembling a standoff, and our attempts to work this problem out in a mature way, (as in one befitting our age) – ie. nose plugs, ear plugs, medication and angry prods in the night – have confirmed, once again, that we are not mature. I think that because he is the type of unnaturally light sleeper that can hear drunks being kicked out of the local pub in the next suburb – he should be the one to move out; he thinks that because I didn’t snore when he married me, our current situation is a perfect example of misrepresentation, and the punishment should fit the crime.
First-world marital problems.
Who do you think is right?