Eileene is away for a long weekend, taking some overdue vacation time to attend a Doctor Who convention in Los Angeles. I’m not there with her; I was supposed to attend a classroom observation until Friday morning’s snow day announcement, and besides, I haven’t any interest in the show at all.
So I’m home, reading for my classes, writing papers, doing laundry, doing dishes, shoveling the driveway, and just generally living the life of a merry bachelor. The real-life kind. And, like most real-life merry bachelors, my bed is empty.
This is not entirely a bad thing. Eileene and I are lousy bedmates. No, no, not like that. We’re great in the sack; it’s after we roll over that the problems begin: our comfort levels for noise, temperature, tidiness of the blankets, et cetera, are entirely incompatible with one another’s preferred sleeping conditions. This has resulted in a strange trade-off I’m enduring in Eileene’s absence.
I find it hard to go to sleep when she’s gone. Like sleeping in a hotel bed, no matter how comfortable it may be, there’s something not-quite-right with it. I get to sleep after midnight, simply because the bed doesn’t feel right, and wake early. Nevertheless, with six hours or less of sleep, I wake feeling refreshed. My guess is that, once asleep, I’m completely asleep for all six hours and that, usually an eight-hour man, all I truly need is six hours, as long as they’re really good hours. It tempts me to reconsider the virtues of twin beds. Though sniggered at for existing only in television sitcoms of the prudish ’50s, there’s a lot to be said for being able to get the bed just the way you like it. No reason one can’t climb into another bed after snuggling, especially not if it’s the kind of intense snuggling that requires cleanup afterwards, anyway.
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