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June / July 2006 Contest Results |
Let's Have Some Quiet
In Here, Please
By Darla Curry,
Texas
My
Mother-in-law neglected to warn me my husband was born taking a nap.
Upon arrival, his sleepful state was doubtless undisturbed by the
ceremonial spank of the attending physician. If indeed a responsive cry
ensued, the wail surely expressed, "If anyone calls, don't wake me up."
Some people believe marriages were made in heaven; my husband believes
naps were.
To attest
belief in the ritual of snoozle, this clone of Little Boy Blue dozes
daily in triplicate -- after breakfast, after lunch, and immediately
before dinner. Even as an active executive, he routinely exits his power
chair for a refreshing siesta on the office carpet. This means, of
course, he's an insomniac at night ... but never mind minor problems.
He has napped in celebration of the sunrise, Mental Alertness Week, our
son's first permanent tooth, and my hernia surgery. A mattress
commercial automatically plunges him into a nightfall position. His idea
of the perfect weekend would be to fall asleep in front of the
television at midnight on Friday, not to arise until Sunday at noon.
Professional nappers act alive until one day following matrimony. How,
then, could I have known when I married this descendant of Sleeping
Beauty that I was not getting a yard mower, fence mender, or garage
painter? As a young bride, I tried to explain to my mother, who thought
my housekeeping vaguely resembled Lyle Lovett's hairdo, that the
necessity of respectful silence around the house prevented me from
vacuuming for weeks at a time.
Growing weary of pleading,
"No one needs this many naps," I changed my
ploy. "Okay," I said, "I know you need your rest, but I suffer
multiple bunions from being a perpetual "carpet-creeper."
Unsympathetically he said,
"You should have been cat-napping all these
years. If Hitler had been napping in the 1940's, he wouldn't have had
time to bring us World War II. Don't bug me," he yawned. "I can't
concentrate when I'm awake."
As a child, our son stayed quiet during 48,000 miles of automobile
travel and 4,240 times after school. He thought no children knew the
color of their dad's eyes and that all mothers made the bed three times
a day. When he was fourteen years wise, he asked one day, "Mom, is Dad
entered in the Olympic Sleeping Marathon or are we related to Rip Van
Winkle?"
I was quick.
"Your father is Rip Van Winkle reincarnated. Don't despair. If on
schedule, he should resume ordinary consciousness in only one more year,
leaving ample time to become acquainted with him before you leave for
college."
The year my husband snoozed through our son's high school graduation, I
announced with authority, "Experts have proved that the average person
needs no more than six hours of sleep in a twenty-four hour span." "It has never been my goal to be just an average person," he fired
back.
His love of slumber has offered him immunity to overdoses of
togetherness at many family gatherings. My brother, having come three
times to Mother's house one Christmas afternoon to greet us -- and still
finding my spouse asleep -- asked, "What's wrong with him? Does he have
the sleeping sickness?"
"No," I whispered. "He thinks his father was a bear and he's gone into
hibernation for the winter."
Finally, in order to cope with the Sleep-in that I had inadvertently
said "I do" to, I started doing copious research. My greatest
encouragement came from World Book Dictionary's fifth definition of
"sleeper": "Something with little advance notice that makes an
unexpected success."
Last year my husband celebrated his 72nd birthday. Today an attractive
woman at the grocery store asked him if he is about age 50.
When we arrived back home, I hastened to the bedroom, grabbed my
never-tells-a-lie blue magnifying hand-mirror, and analyzed the lines
under my eyes.
Pardon me ... I think I feel a nap coming on."
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