The raveled sleave of care

 I've reached a stage in my life when a reasonable night's sleep is not a luxury.

I simply don't function well without it.  I suspect I never did, but now I know it. Call it wisdom if you like; it really feels more like surrender and resignation, in my case.

So the Resident Fan Boy snores from time to time.  This past weekend, he snored big time.  Every time I felt my body relax and my consciousness drift down, a huge motor-like buzz pulled me back from the ocean of slumber.

The first couple of times, I was gentle and courteous:  "Darling, can you roll on your side and elevate your head?"

The response was a "Wha-a-a-?" and an audible slump.

The second couple of times I resorted to gentle pushes and pokes.

By one a.m., ninety minutes after bedtime, I was murderous.  I made my way out to the living room, setting up my pillows, water, and a herbal sleep aid.  The last time I did something like this (apart from when the RFB got COVID last summer), was after a fight early in our marriage, a couple of decades ago.

The Resident Fan Boy remained in blissful, noisy repose.  He also remained alive.  I am capable of self-control, in a crisis.

Fortunately, these snore-fests are usually far between.  I mean, the RFB has snored for years, but I can usually manage a decent rest.

But I need a head-start.

So I'll bid you goodnight.