The Non Marriage Bed - How to Avoid Domestic Chaos in the Land of Nod
I used to get frightened at night time.
Not from the boogie man, and certainly not of the dark.
What loomed in the shadows was unfortunately far more tangible; MY BOYFRIEND.
Yes, that's right.
I was afraid to sleep in the same bed with my boyfriend.
You see, he is what you would call a wild man.
This male stereotype is even more fitting during the late evening hours (and not always in a good way).
As soon as the REM cycle set in he would start punching and kicking at an imaginary adversary.
If said adversary were to actually materialize he or she would no doubt end up the hospital.
Seeing as this phantom doesn't exist, I copped the brunt of these horizontal scissor kicks and upper cuts.
And it didn't end there.
As much vocal in his slumbering boxing matches as he is physical, I had constantly found myself shakily grasping at my doona, wide-eyed and murmuring 'please don't hit me again.
' It isn't that he has a deep subconscious fondness for misogyny, just some deep seated issues that mainly tend to surface when his mental defenses are down.
So where was my solution? As far as his issues are concerned, I will never know.
With regards to my night time health, it turns out the answer was only a few meters away.
Having gone through a few more nights of aforementioned unrest I just upped and went to the currently vacant spare room for a peaceful, non-violent night's sleep.
The first few times he was horrified he'd sent me packing.
Now when he discovers me on the 'guest futon' he just says 'Wild man again huh?' And breakfast ensues in an orderly fashion.
Sleeping in different beds has often been a tradition reserved for those perhaps in a later stage of companionship, and can no longer deal with the snoring factor.
Any earlier than this in the relationship and people assumed you were having 'problems' (unless it's just the one night hubby sleeps on the couch as punishment for a naughty sexual indiscretion).
And what about the elderly couples who have slept in the same cosy double from day dot? How on earth do they do it? Perhaps it's because they are a product of the depression.
You know, times were tough.
One pillow each and dripping on toast.
I can just hear my late Grandfather's Northern England inflected response were my Grandmother to request a second boudoir - 'Wha wud y'wan nother bed? There's nothing wrong with woon we ave!' My boyfriend and I will be moving out to our own place soon, but I've already stipulated on no uncertain terms that I am to have my own room.
I can hear gramps yelling from his grave about the impracticality of it all, but so what? If a dual income can afford two cars, it can sure as hell afford two rooms.
The benefits won't end with a sound slumber either - I'll have my own space in which to keep my room smelling like roses, rather than have it littered with boy towels that smell like, well, smells.
Glasses of water won't get smashed onto the pillow during the night because someone precariously balanced one on a windowsill over a curtain.
My doona won't be pulled off me and thrown towards the other end of the house in the freezing morning hours, and nor will my closet permeate the faint aroma of very, very, very old red wine.
His and hers bedrooms are all the rage.
Upon remarking the idea to a friend recently she was particularly enlightened.
'You mean it's OK to have my own room? THANK GOD!' It's perfect when you think about it.
He gets to keep his piles of piles in every corner, and I don't need to worry about lemurs nesting in the bottom drawer of the bureau.
There won't be any juxtaposing color schemes in baby pink and powder blue, but the next time my man gets the urge to do the Jackie Chan in Neverland, our new 'separated' sleeping relationship will be all sweet dreams indeed.
Not from the boogie man, and certainly not of the dark.
What loomed in the shadows was unfortunately far more tangible; MY BOYFRIEND.
Yes, that's right.
I was afraid to sleep in the same bed with my boyfriend.
You see, he is what you would call a wild man.
This male stereotype is even more fitting during the late evening hours (and not always in a good way).
As soon as the REM cycle set in he would start punching and kicking at an imaginary adversary.
If said adversary were to actually materialize he or she would no doubt end up the hospital.
Seeing as this phantom doesn't exist, I copped the brunt of these horizontal scissor kicks and upper cuts.
And it didn't end there.
As much vocal in his slumbering boxing matches as he is physical, I had constantly found myself shakily grasping at my doona, wide-eyed and murmuring 'please don't hit me again.
' It isn't that he has a deep subconscious fondness for misogyny, just some deep seated issues that mainly tend to surface when his mental defenses are down.
So where was my solution? As far as his issues are concerned, I will never know.
With regards to my night time health, it turns out the answer was only a few meters away.
Having gone through a few more nights of aforementioned unrest I just upped and went to the currently vacant spare room for a peaceful, non-violent night's sleep.
The first few times he was horrified he'd sent me packing.
Now when he discovers me on the 'guest futon' he just says 'Wild man again huh?' And breakfast ensues in an orderly fashion.
Sleeping in different beds has often been a tradition reserved for those perhaps in a later stage of companionship, and can no longer deal with the snoring factor.
Any earlier than this in the relationship and people assumed you were having 'problems' (unless it's just the one night hubby sleeps on the couch as punishment for a naughty sexual indiscretion).
And what about the elderly couples who have slept in the same cosy double from day dot? How on earth do they do it? Perhaps it's because they are a product of the depression.
You know, times were tough.
One pillow each and dripping on toast.
I can just hear my late Grandfather's Northern England inflected response were my Grandmother to request a second boudoir - 'Wha wud y'wan nother bed? There's nothing wrong with woon we ave!' My boyfriend and I will be moving out to our own place soon, but I've already stipulated on no uncertain terms that I am to have my own room.
I can hear gramps yelling from his grave about the impracticality of it all, but so what? If a dual income can afford two cars, it can sure as hell afford two rooms.
The benefits won't end with a sound slumber either - I'll have my own space in which to keep my room smelling like roses, rather than have it littered with boy towels that smell like, well, smells.
Glasses of water won't get smashed onto the pillow during the night because someone precariously balanced one on a windowsill over a curtain.
My doona won't be pulled off me and thrown towards the other end of the house in the freezing morning hours, and nor will my closet permeate the faint aroma of very, very, very old red wine.
His and hers bedrooms are all the rage.
Upon remarking the idea to a friend recently she was particularly enlightened.
'You mean it's OK to have my own room? THANK GOD!' It's perfect when you think about it.
He gets to keep his piles of piles in every corner, and I don't need to worry about lemurs nesting in the bottom drawer of the bureau.
There won't be any juxtaposing color schemes in baby pink and powder blue, but the next time my man gets the urge to do the Jackie Chan in Neverland, our new 'separated' sleeping relationship will be all sweet dreams indeed.