I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. by a heavy blow to my outer right thigh. A blow so powerful, in fact, that it could have shattered my femur, even through the padding of adipose tissue that I carry around just to cushion random sleeptime violence. I have no idea what Farmer H was plotting. Crippling me would only make his own life more difficult. So I presume it was some type of reflex action, or an involuntary muscle faux pas like that of George Costanza when he couldn't control his jabbing elbow.
When confronted with my inadvertent pummeling, Farmer H denied responsibility. He's like that, you know. How simple it would have been for him to say, "I'm sorry. I didn't know I did that." But that's not how The Farmer rolls. He's like a politician. Everything is a competition, a race. With only one winner.
Never mind that by tomorrow, I will have the bruise as evidence. Farmer H is the type to ask, "What makes you think I did it? Anybody could have broken in and fractured your femur while you slept. Did you SEE me do it? I didn't think so. It wasn't me. Good luck figuring out who lamed you." He would sooner set up a surveillance camera with night vision to record my sleep for a whole year, and then point out that for 364 nights he did NOT whack my leg, so that means that it was obviously not him on that 365th night that just did not happen to be captured on video.
And furthermore, Farmer H is the type of guy who must always have something bigger and badder happen to HIM. "Why, I remember that time I woke up with a hole blasted clean through my own femur. You could have driven an entire regiment though that hole in my leg. As a matter of fact, the doctor had to use nitroglycerin, TNT, and a boxcar of grenades to blast that hole closed. I'm lucky I don't walk with a limp, all that I've been through. You don't have a mark on you. I doubt you even got bumped by a glowing Lunesta moth."
Yeah. He's like that Kristen Wiig character on SNL.
Meanwhile, not only will I be dodging breather vapor all the livelong night, but sweating under a thick suit of bubble wrap as well. This sleeping business wears me out.
I think it may be time for separate beds. You remember the old sitcoms. Mary Tyler Moore never slept with Dick Van Dyke when they were Rob and Laura. They had twin beds, they did share a room, after all. Sometimes I long for my very own bed, just a little cot, all mine. No husbands toenails raking down my leg, or a little dog in my armpit ......
ReplyDeleteWhat am I saying?? I love my dogs!
Kathy,
ReplyDeleteBut I don't WANT to get my big toe stuck in the bathtub water spigot! Though it might be worth it to see Farmer H tumble over an ottoman every evening when he returns home from work.