I'll See You In My Dreams

One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life :  The word is "love". ~~ Sophocles ~~


Every night, by the time you climb into bed, the day has generally taken such a bite out of both of you that the chances of feeling loving and affectionate can be pretty remote. To combat this, my wife and I have a rule :
       No discussing "Things We Have To Do" or "Unpleasant Business" once we get into bed. Unless it's really important. Or you meant to say it before and didn't get a chance. Or you just feel like saying it for no real reason. ( We're nothing if not flexible.)
       Originally the plan was, no discussion of unplesantries ~while getting ready for bed~, but that's too hard. There's something about putting a toothbrush in your mouth that makes people want to talk.
        Consequently, even the most important exchanges take place between rinsing and spitting.
        "I saw that doctor today..." Spit.
        " Yeah?" Swish, swish, spit.
        " Yeah." Little spit. "He said it's nothing." Big spit.
        " Well, I say" ~~ little dribble ~~ "we get a second opinion."
Gargle, gargle, cchhwip, pttooey.
        ( Incidentally, Cchhwip Pttoey is not only the sound of someone spitting; but interestingly enough, the Minister of the Interior of Sri Lanka.)
         Every night, you brush and talk and spit and catch up, racing to beat that Conversation Curfew.
         See, you don't want to drag the world into bed with you, because there's enough going on there already. Beds are complex, multipurpose arenas, and it's important that the two parties specify which activity they're undertaking.
        "Are we talking, or are we reading?"
        " Are we sleeping, or are we fooling around?"
        You have to clarify.
        " Are we not talking because we're mad, or because we both just don't feel like talking?"
        " Are we thinking 'ambitious' fooling around, or 'let's just do what we've got to do, and not kill ourselves'?"
        The good thing is, when you're together forever, there's less pressure to make any given night magical. You always know you have another shot tomorrow. And the next night.
        That's the whole beauty of Forever ~~ nothing but tomorrows.
        Of course, if you cash in the Tomorrow Chip too often, you break the bank. One day you roll over, notice each other, and say, "Hey, we used to do something here involving rubbing and touching ~~ any idea what it was? No recollection at all? Hmm... I know I enjoyed it, I remember that."
        So you negotiate, you clarify, and settle in. You find your position, you fix your pillows, and arrange your mutual blanket.
        That blanket, essentially, IS your relationship : one big cover concealing the fact that two people are inside, squirmming around each other trying to get comfortable.
        How you handle that blanket is crucial.
        Sometimes I wake up and have NO blanket. There's nothing there to handle. The woman of my dreams, who is sleeping very cozily, has somehow accumulated the bulk of WHAT'S AT LEAST HALF MINE.
        I tug at it gingerly. She stirs, and seemingly unaware, she tightens her grasp and rolls farther away, taking with her another good foot and a half of blanket. I watch her and calculate my options. I decide it's not worth waking her up or being spiteful, so I try to make do without.
        I stare at the ceiling and count the little paint bumps, hoping I can bore myself back to sleep. Within seconds, my brain comes up with five different parts of the house that need painting and fixing, and then I think about how the guy at that hardware store who was so helpful doesn't work there anymore and how the new guy is really unctuous, and I should probably find someplace else. It's 2:35 in the morning, and I'm looking for new hardware stores.
       Now I'm more irritated and much more awake. I look over and see my bride dreaming blissfully, secure, cradled and warmed by what is now over 90 percent of the blanket. Despite my affection, I resent her deeply.
       I sit up. I look at her. I watch her sleep. I think to myself, "How can this be? After all the negotiating and maneuvering and tap dancing we've done, how is it that this person, who, by my own initiative, will be placing her head twelve inches away from MY head for the rest of my life, is getting such a better end of the bargain? It just doesn't seem right. Will we never get better at this? Must one of us always be less content than the other?"
       I pull up the pathetically small segment of blanket left available to me and scoot up next to the woman of my dreams, partly because I hope that her sleep will rub off on me, and partly because I figure she's got to be warmer than I am.
       And as I hold her close against me, it dawns on me : NOW I remember. THIS is why we go through all of THAT. Because holding The One Who Fits in your arms simply feels this good, and nothing else really does. And to earn THIS, you must swat away all that stands in its way.
       At this point, my wife senses I'm staring at her and opens one eye.
       "What," she says.
       I say, "What do you mean 'what'?"
       "What are you doing?"
       " Nothing."
       " What are you looking at me for?"
       " I wasn't looking....I was just thinking....are you really going to be right there every night?"
       " Yes."
       " Forever?"
       " Mmhmm."
       " You're saying, that of all the people in the world, the one whom you will donate your Naked Self, night after night, is ME?"
       " Uh-huh."
        If I let it go there, it would have been a nice moment.
       " And the reason would be what ~~ because I'm THAT appealing?"
       Now she opens both eyes, props herself up on her elbow, and before she can say anything, I say, "I went too far, I see that now. You just go back to sleep and I'll say nothing."
       She slides towards me, and we find homes for our arms and legs. Before long, we're sleeping.
       And in the morning, the dance continues.


~~ Paul Reiser~~