latest littlegreybox

My space

“I think you need to apologise,” I look up from my sleepy haze and cast a tired eye over my husband standing there in his pyjama pants. It isn’t intentional, but I roll my eyes at him, I can only imagine what this is about. “Do you know what you did to me last night, Phoebe?,” I’m trying to supress a smirk but I’m not doing a very good job at it, “No, sweetie. What did I do to you last night?” I answer.

“When I came to bed last night your arm was stretched out on my side of the bed and your hand was facing upwards. As I climbed into bed your fingernails cut me. Your talons, they cut me, Phoebe. Right here,” he’s pointing to a small red mark above his right armpit with a teeny tiny cut in it. “It bled. I’ve been stewing over this all night and I’m furious,” It is all I can do not to laugh at the man.

“Well? Are you going to apologise? I really think you need to after what you’ve done to me. It really hurts you know, it bled.” He’s being serious but having a laugh at the same time.  That said, he’d be very happy if I apologised to him for the way my hand was positioned while I was unconscious. He’d probably be over the moon if I wrote him a formal apology and offered to make his dinner for the next two weeks, but that will happen around the same time hell freezes over.

So we stand there, my hands still immersed in dish water, his hand still pointing toward the miniscule red mark from my, clearly, premeditated attack on him last night. It’s a stalemate. It’s 7:30am on a Tuesday morning and at my house there’s a good ol’ fashioned Mexican standoff in full swing.

On a junk ship in Halong Bay

On a junk ship in Halong Bay

I had thought, before I lived with a man, the whole ‘my side of the bed’ thing was over the top. How could anybody really be upset about how much bed space they have? When you love someone you snuggle all night, like that scene from ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, and everyone is wrapped up in the warm blanket of love. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Bed space is more valuable than tickets to a sold out One Direction concert. Wait, no, it’s even MORE valuable than that. Unfortunately for Matt, I’m all arms and legs and once I’m asleep, I’m out cold. He loves nothing more than to explain to me, first thing in the morning, how I was all over his side of the bed or how I took all the sheets and he froze to death all night.

His little sob story would be better received if he had any proof. How do I know he isn’t just making it up? And even if he isn’t, it’s not like I’m sprawled out intentionally, it just happens. I’m 5’8” for crying out loud, I have a large wing span! It’s not my fault! My rebuttal also includes explanation that there is more than one blanket in the house and should Matt find himself ‘out in the cold’ he could simply grab another blanket. So part of me can’t help but think he enjoys having this little blanket-grabbing hypothermia routine to use against me.

In the cold, dark depths of the night, there is no place for love, only a deep seeded resentment toward the horrible person next to you who is spread out like a table cloth at Christmas dinner. Things get crazy when you’re freezing your buns off at 2am, relegated to a tiny slither of mattress. People get shoved off beds, blankets get yanked away and pillows become barriers. Matt has, I am sure, plotted my demise many times. That said, requiring someone to apologise for an accidental, mild skin abrasion is taking things one step too far.

Here's us in Switzerland, when we're not arguing about blankets

Here’s us in Switzerland, when we’re not arguing about blankets

As Matt stands there, watching me closely for a reaction, it occurs to me there is no possible outcome to this situation where we both come out happy. I’m not apologising for scratching his stupid arm while I was asleep and he’s not backing down post-accusation, he’s come too far now. So I do the only reasonable thing I can think of. I take my hand out of the soapy dish water and use my index finger to poke his scratch, then run away into the bedroom.

It isn’t the mature response and it isn’t the way Dr Phil would handle it, but Dr Phil isn’t living with my husband. In my household there will never be a resolution when it comes to the bedspace to life partner ratio. But deep down I think it entertains the both of us and gives us a good laugh and who knows, maybe one day Matt will give up and accept his cold, sleepless fate. In the meantime, I’ll be sleeping with my protractor clenched firmly in hand, pointed edge facing up.

Phoebe.

littlegreybox

I would just love to hear about your blanket related (or not) disagreements and any subsequent ‘injuries’ sustained. Vent your relationship laughs below in the comments. Don’t forget to check back later in the week for Part 2 of our honeymoon to Vietnam.

 

8 Comments on My space

  1. I Love this! *CLICKS +FOLLOW*

    Like

    • hahaha :) thank you very much!

      Like

  2. That was hilarious! Good job! :D

    Like

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