“My son complains about headaches.  I tell him all the time, when you get out of bed, it’s feet first!”
-Henry Youngman

Unlike many people, J. and I did not live together before we got married which, besides other learning curves, presented us with an amusing problem: learning to share a bed.  I lived in our flat alone for months before the wedding and so, after years of university dorm room or ghetto student housing mattresses, I justifiably learned quickly to sleep in the middle of our/my shiny new queen size.  Arms stretched wide just because I could.  Not so handy when your new over-a-foot-taller-than-you husband moves in!

Nearly every morning one of us delivers a laundry list of blunt trauma accusations to the other.  “You kneed me at three in the morning!”  “How, exactly did you manage to wake up on the other side of the bed?”  “You nearly butted me out of bed, I woke up looking at the the floor.”  “Where’d you think I got that bruise from?”  “You elbowed me in the face!”  etc…

Apart from the normal co-habitation hazards, there’s a new threat.  J. has either developed a creative (i.e. sadistic) way to get me up in the morning, or has simply forgotten to turn off his phone alarm.  See, my alarm wakes me up to the soothing sounds of Madeleine Peyroux or Adele.  J.’s phone alarm sounds, to my sleep foggy ears, like a nuclear attack warning.

However I feel as though I have had the last laugh.  Three days ago, when this awful sound catapulted me into wakefulness for the first time, I sort of panicked.  And by panicked, I mean flailed.  The act of which got J. soundly punched.  I felt badly afterwards…a long time afterwards because, being the antithesis of a morning person, a tiny part of my morning-hating soul wanted to believe he deserved it.