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I have a love/hate relationship with snuggling. So, last night was case in point.
“Snug me. It's cold,” Frank demands. Two quick explanations: You know the way that couples develop their own obnoxious language? Frank and I have shortened snuggle to snug. Also, apparently, I give off more heat than a hot rock sauna, bonfire, and volcano combined. Frank, despite being burly and covered in nearly as much fur as a bear, is always freezing. “Snug me. It's cold.” He spoons up beside me, cheek pressed to my neck, chest hair soft against my back, his knees tucked behind mine, toes touching. I drift off to sleep thinking, “I am so lucky. This is bliss.” An hour later, I wake up, thinking, “This is hell. I'm in hell." I'm hot...sweating hot. His chest hair has somehow velcroed itself to my skin...panic...we're stuck like this forever...he's managed to clamp his leg over my body ...it's like being locked into “The Beast” at King's Island...he's snoring on my neck...I'm smothering...he's not my husband. He's a giant dry cleaning bag trying to suffocate me... I kick my feet out from underneath the covers until sheet and all are puddled on the floor and thrash about until we are no longer touching in any way, then shove him to the edge of the bed and scream, “Get off. You're killing me.” “Sorry.” He rolls over, and resumes snoring. Tomorrow night, he will optimistically demand again, “Snug me.” He just refuses to accept that you can't spoon a fork.
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the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.
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