In Which a War is Waged

Sharing a bed with someone is like a war that is fought entirely by special ops agents who act out in the most deviant ways possible. Their methods for gaining the upper hand are based around dirty tricks and propaganda delivered in nightly air raids. If you’re lucky you have a larger military force on your side than your partner.

Even the whole concept of sleeping in a bed suggests different sides. His side, her side; his lamp, my lamp; his corner, my corner! Mine!

This particular post may or may not have come to life last night as I flailed for the edge of duvet while my husband proceeded to unconsciously roll himself into a husband burrito. After living together for so long we have both developed our own tactics for military superiority in bed (pause for laughter). As we are in two different weight classes I find the most effective strategy for ensuring I keep some of the blanket is by tucking the edge under my body. At the slightest hint of him tugging it towards himself I grab the corner and roll out, securing more ground for myself in the battle. It’s a bit like having a laser warning system; he trips the motion sensor and I go on high alert. Roll, roll, roll!

Of course, he has his own tactics that show superior skill. For instance, sprawling diagonally, thus limiting my acquired land to a small triangular section that also must be shared with the cats, my proverbial allies in thus war. Very sneaky indeed. I can’t fault him for it, though. I am 76% certain that he has no idea he is doing it. Counter measures include huffily throwing the right half of my body against him, but it’s a bit like trying to tear down the Berlin Wall with a peacock feather. When he sleeps he is out of it, and only the gentle pitter-patter of tiny kitty feet can rise him from his slumber. Go figure.

But I’ve got my own tricks. With the husband usually going to bed earlier than myself I do have to fight for blankets, but that also means I can manipulate my feelings allies into laying on his legs, which usually stirs him enough to reclaim one of my pillows. When that fails, because his vice-like grip threatens the safety of his hostage and I will not lose another one, I tend to accept my fate, at least for the night.

But the sun always rises, and the battleground is revealed to be a mess of gore in the form of twisted blankets and pillows that have gone AWOL. I’m sure the Geneva Convention has something to say about the fact that we no longer use a flat sheet – as using one was surely some sort of war crime given the way it was torn away from its carefully tucked corners. The horror, the horror.

But why, Kathleen, you might ask, can you compare your sleeping habits to a warzone?

Simple, dear reader. Because even after all the tugging at the duvet and stealthily placing the cat on my husband’s head in such a way that it won’t smother him but will give him an itchy nose, I still get mo’fo snuggles. And snuggles are bitchin’.

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