 illustration by Jason Stout |
it would take before the sight of me on the couch would drive my wife insane.
This is no laughing matter. In fact, I don’t think there is a touchier subject
in our relationship than Time Spent By Lee On The Couch, Goddammit (with the
possible exception of Time Spent By Lee On The Toilet, Goddammit). I will admit
that I do nap a lot on the divan, but I keep telling her that I have to sleep
sometime, because I’m certainly not getting any sleep in our bed.
I should explain that. In the beginning, during the period of time that
historians call B.C., or Before Cohabitation, I was an unmarried, single
person. As such, I enjoyed a great many things. The very best thing about being
an unmarried single person — besides the fact that I wasn’t married — was
that my bed was my bed. It was my bed and nobody else’s. I was the
captain of my bed; passengers were admitted only by my command, and the length
of their stay, as well as the nature of their visit, was completely controlled
by me. If I wanted to, I could turn to my girlfriend or date or recent
nightclub acquaintance or whoever and announce, “Attention: All persons who
are not me. The sex is over. Now is the time for sleeping. You must leave this
place.” And that person had to leave. It was a rule.
When you’re married, you can’t do that, mostly because once a person has
consented to have sex with you pretty much whenever you want it for the rest of
your life, you are in turn required to let that person sleep in your bed all
night. Every night. Even if it means a lifetime of tolerating that person’s
nocturnal flatulence. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but there’s really no
getting around it. I checked the by-laws and there just isn’t.
You know, I wouldn’t mind sharing the bed so much if it weren’t for all the
unnecessary touching and rubbing. What I mean is, as long as we are, um,
intimately engaged, the touching and rubbing that goes with it is okay. But
when we’re done and it’s time to sleep, it’s time to sleep. The touching
and rubbing was nice, but that’s all in the past now, so give it a rest,
already.
Okay, let’s run through this one more time: Settle down. Stop with the
touching and rubbing. Keep to your side of the bed. Nobody gets hurt. Got it?
Now that I am one, I know why married people are so tired all of the time. It’s not because
of work or kids or anything like that. It’s because we never get a decent
night’s sleep. Think about it. How are you supposed to get any meaningful rest
when there’s a naked person lying right next to you?
Even if you can get past the naked part, they’re still laying there. Right
next to you. Bugging you. Hogging the bed. Stealing the covers. Scratching you
with their toenails. Talking in their sleep. Singing in their sleep.
Tearing your flesh with their unshaven legs. Flopping around. Passing gas. And
god knows what else.
And that’s just while they’re asleep. When they’re awake, they’re eating
crackers and mayonnaise in bed, picking their toes, and passing
gas. It’s all so… uncivilized. It’s like bunking with Sasquatch.
My wife won’t even make
our bed. I won’t either, but that’s not the point. The point is, when it’s time
for bed, she just crawls under this mess of blankets and kicks at them until
they’re kind of halfway scattered out. And she acts like that’s fine. But it
isn’t. The bed’s not made. The sheets and blankets aren’t
lined up, there’s only an area of about two square feet where they all
overlap. So, we get to spend the rest of the night fighting for control of the
Overlap Zone to stay warm.
And, my God, she’s a thrasher. This morning, I woke up with no pillow, no
blankets, no sheets; just an old washcloth on top of me for warmth. The only
parts of my body still on the bed were my ass and one elbow. Meanwhile, my wife
is spread-eagle in the center of the bed, her hands and feet touching all four
corners of the mattress, as if she’s afraid it’s going to fly away.
The sheets and blankets… are gone. I look for them; they are in three
different rooms. I have no idea how this happened. I’m thinking of bringing
in a priest.
I swear to god, I know why
people have affairs. It’s not because they don’t love their spouses. It’s
because they’d like, just once, to have sex with someone who was going to hang
around and bug the shit out of them until they forget why they ever wanted to
have sex with them in the first place.
And now my wife’s on my case because she says there’s no romance in our
relationship. Well, no shit. Still, I am willing to accept my share of the
responsibility for this situation. I think the reason why we married men have
problems being romantic is simply because we don’t know how. All of our
experience is in pursuing women, not catching them. And when we occasionally do
catch a woman, we find that we are completely unqualified to take proper care
of her.
It’s kind of like when you were a kid chasing after a horny toad. It might
take all day and every ounce of your adolescent skill and cunning to trap him,
but you would catch him eventually. And it was so cool. You actually had, in
your possession, a living, breathing, horny toad. You’d carry him around,
showing him off to all of your friends, and they all thought it was cool, too.
At least until they got their own horny toad (or in some cases, a not-so-horny
toad).
But anyway, it wasn’t long before maybe your horny toad lost some of its
excitement and appeal. So then what did you do? I’ll tell you what you did. You
put the little guy in a mayonnaise jar with some grass in it, poked a couple of
holes in the lid, and you waited for that poor bastard to die.
Okay, the analogy wears a little thin, but you get my point. Or maybe you
don’t. The point is, all of our training is in chasing women. It’s what
we’re good at. It’s the only thing we’re good at. And in all fairness,
it’s expected of us. We’re the ones expected to make the first date phone call.
We’re the ones sending flowers. We’re the ones begging for sex. We’re out
there, every night, busting our asses, trying to make a good impression. All
the woman has to do is show up.
Meanwhile, we’re opening doors, throwing our jackets over mud puddles, and
skywriting “I love you” across the sky. We’re juggling. We’re spinning plates.
It’s like a circus act. Frankly, by the time we catch one of you, we’re too
exhausted to do anything with you. And that’s another reason why we’re always
lying around on the couch. (Goddammit.) So there.
This article appears in December 13 • 1996 and December 13 • 1996 (Cover).