It was a subtle decline. A slow surrender. And at first, my husband thought I was to blame.
"Roll over," he would whisper, in the middle of the night–gently nudging me. "Scoot over. You're hogging the bed."
It became a sorta mantra he repeated every night. Roll over, roll over, scoot da booty right over.
Out of nowhere I had become a bed hog. Or, as he called it, a heat seeking missile.
"Are you cold or something?" he asked one morning. "Maybe you should start wearing long pajamas to bed."
"I'm not trying to be a heat seeking missile," I said.
"I know," he said. "You're a cute, midnight cuddler. But it's uncomfortable."
I tried my best to stay on my side of the bed–I mean, as hard as a person can try while dead asleep. I wore long pajamas. I threw on an electric blanket.
Nothing worked. I always ending up rolling into the middle of the bed, smashed up against his back.
We were on the verge of calling it a night and buying twins beds (not really) when it happened.
He crash-rolled into the middle of the bed, too.
"Dude," he remarked, "I think our mattress just caved in."
It was true. Our beloved mattress had given up the ghost. Strung up the white flag of surrender and collapsed. And there were were, rolled up together like two hot dogs in a bun.
"See, I'm not a heat seeking missile!" I crowed, triumphant.
My triumph was short-lived. Now we had to figure out a way to sleep in that cursed valley.
So, we girded our loins and hiked our way back up our own sides of the bed. I claimed my territory, planted my flag and tried to sleep.
But it's tough to sleep when you're clinging to the edge of a cliff.
Inevitably, we rolled back into the valley of the shadow of bad breath.
"We could try flipping the mattress," he offered.
But we've already done that. Twice.
"We could buy a used mattress on Craig's List," he offered.
Ewwwww.
Oh, well.
Life as a heat-seeking missile isn't so bad. Especially if you ditch the long pajamas.
