Did you know that? That my husband talks in his sleep? Well he does. Most the time he mumbles, sometimes he brings the sort of colourful language that would, as the saying goes, make a sailor blush. And then there’s the nights when he is halfway between being asleep and being awake. The times when he is so convincing I’m not sure he’s dreaming or making fun of me. Or finally, the ones where it’s such an interactive dream, usually aided by some form of caffeine where he reenact the dream in real-time for me, the private audience of one.
The other night was one of the latter.
I was woken a couple of times by the conversation he was having about line markings and construction type things. I was sick and snotty so the wakefulness wasn’t all his doing. I chuckled to myself as he walked out a line to be marked, detailing his travels and then heard an aerosol can discharge in the quiet of our silent bedroom. I was like, errr what? Maybe I’M dreaming.
But I wasn’t. I wish I was. What was happening was Hubby had grabbed a can of deodorant from his side table and was now waving it about the bed. I gagged and choked. What are you doing? I said loudly as I laughed my ass off. I knew, he was dreaming and had moved right into full on reenacting. Geez Louise. Oi stop it, I said, it stinks in here.
He mumbled abruptly that he KNEW what he was doing thank you very much and had to get these lines marked. I sighed. Tried not to breath in the fumes and hoped he’d put the darn can down. He had. Moments later as, I can only assume, a haze of antiperspirants rained down on us like fresh snow he rolled over and started snoring. Snoring. Yup. FML.
I wanted to punch him in the face. Seriously. I’m a lover not a fighter but the combination of him being so peacefully asleep, the choking smell and already feeling pretty darn under the weather made me SUPER cranky. I got up, removed the offending can in case there was to be a part two of this adventure and turned on the ensuite exhaust fan to suck some of the smell out.
Grumbling and complaining I climbed back into bed. Hubby was quietly mumbling to himself about people telling him what to do and I couldn’t help but chuckle quietly into the sheet covering my face. A barrier against the fumes, you see. And feeling all in all a little more cheery I snuggled into that sleeping man I love and started to drift off to sleep.
And then he rolled over and basically boob punched me.
Sleep talking. Active sleeping. Not so freaking cute today, let me tell you! And don’t you worry your pretty little heads, he’s still alive. Barely. You see come morning, as my head cold had really set in and I sat up to blow my nose for the billionth time, he said to me… Me, who had a still aching boob. Who was rubbing weary eye that stung from the probable chemical burn inflicted by a midnight aerosol raid. Who was awake listening to him snore on and off hourly pretty much the whole night. ME.
He said to me, gosh, I had THE WORST nights sleep last night.