When I was young(er), I was a championship sleeper. If it was an olympic event, I could have taken home the gold for sure. Ten, twelve hours, no problem. You could have marched a band through the room and I wouldn't have even rolled over.
Not anymore. Now, it seems like I wake up several times a night just to roll over. Most of the time, I am able to get back to sleep fairly quickly, unless something grabs my attention. Like last night.
As I snuggled down under the covers a little deeper, hoping to drift back off, I heard it. Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. Hmm. Was that rain hitting the skylight out in the hallway? Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. No. Too loud and heavy for rain. Sleet? Hail? Pieces of the satellite they shot down last week?
Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. Creaaak. Groan. Okay. Definitely not any of the aforementioned possibilities. Rain does not creak or groan. In fact, it sounded like it was a lot closer than the hallway.
Immediately, my mind jumped to the worst case scenario (Yes, I can think of something worse than getting taken out by a satellite). What if the floorboards in the attic had weakened over the years and the heating/air-conditioning unit up there was about to come crashing through the ceiling and crush us into paste? (See, I knew I could come up with something worse. I am not my father's daughter for nothing.)
But before shaking Tim awake and dragging him to the southeast corner of the basement (no, wait, that's for tornadoes), I mean, making him stand in the doorway (oops, that's earthquakes--what do you do in case of death by household appliances?) I decided to give one more listen.
Plooop. Plooop. Plooop. Creaaak. Groan. Wheeze. Wait. It didn't sound like it was coming from above after all. It sounded as though it was coming from somewhere even closer, like next to me.
Uh oh. Was this where I rolled over and came face to face with some gruesomly disfigured evil spectre that was looming over Tim's prostrate form while weilding a sharp knife dripping in blood? (Maybe I shouldn't watch the history channel before bed anymore, especially anything with the words Violent Past, Blood, Death or Destruction in the title. Perhaps I should stick to reruns of "The Beverly Hillbillies" and then I would only have to worry about seeing Granny swimming in the cement pond. Oh. Wait. That's not much better. Never mind.)
Plooop. Creaaak. Groan. Wheeze. Dear God, what was that noise?
Steeling myself for what I might see, I rolled over to find that the horrible, scary noise was worse than anything my imagination had conjured up...it was Tim, trying to breathe through his nose.
Apparently, allergy season is upon us. So much for sleeping through the night for the next couple of weeks/months! All in all, I might actually prefer the spectre. Or the satellite.
1 comment:
you could always go back to punching him and/or holding his nose closed until he rolls over
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