I adore sleep.
I find it to be one of the most relaxing things a person can do with their free time. In fact, I find myself doing it quite frequently, sometimes even up to eight hours a day. When I’m bored, I think to myself, “I should take a nap.” When I’m tired, I think to myself, “Perhaps I should slumber.” However, I am very rarely bored, (because I have a blog and about 5000 books to read), and when I am tired, I cannot help but think that while I maybe need sleep, there are just too many other things I could be doing that may benefit my quality of life just a tad more than napping might. (Passionate hard-core sex and watching marathons of Law and Order SVU come to mind.)
You may wonder why I have babbled on so. My Rockstar is in the process of sawing logs in a disturbingly loud manner even as I am virtually speaking to you. Now, I understand that he is on the edge of geriatricism, weighing in at a solid 42 years of age, but COME ON! It’s 6:42 PM here. (I need not mention that he’s been sleeping for a good half hour already, but I guess I just did.)
I can see my future life very clearly: While some women are afraid to end up alone with forty cats, I am afraid that I will end up alone with a permanently snoring Rockstar. Sure, I could pet him as one of the afore-mentioned lonely old women might pet her cat, but instead of an adorably contented purr, all I will get is a snarfling gargling loud goooooiiiiiiiouuuuuugh. (That’s the closest thing I could come up with for spelling a snore. Sorry.)
I must admit that I hadn’t any uber-exciting plans for the evening, (other than washing my snoring prince’s silky boxer shorts,) but a simple “How do you do, dear” would have been nice. I got home and hopped in the shower to wash off the pizza crud from work and exited the bathroom sans clothes only to find him having a team meeting with the Sandman. WTF. I didn’t know I was dating Rip Van Winkle.