The skies still dark with night, Mark and I had an early-morning conversation that left a bad taste in my mouth. Then again, maybe there just is a bad taste in my mouth. He mentioned that, in the midst of last night's storm, there were times when he wasn't sure what was waking him--the booming thunder or my snoring.
Tis a sad day when one's mate mistakes your snoring for a maelstrom.
And so I've come to realize the harsh truth of half-century living--somewhere along the line, I've swapped my maintenance plans of yore for something much more practical--trying to minimize the "gross out" factor. Thing is, it's turning into a full-time job.
Consider two more things that happened before I even left the bed this morning. First, there was Finn, who now has taken to sleeping under our bed for most of the night, emerging pre-dawn to join us on top. Inevitably, he'll stick his snout next to my lips and breathe in--sometimes for a minute or two. He never kisses me during this routine. I can only imagine that he thinks he's located some festering, three-days-dead vermin in our bed and desires nothing more than to fill his little lungs with my bacteria-riddled bouquet.
After recovering from Finn's sniff test, I reached into my nightstand drawer and pulled out a file. Considering that I routinely scratch my slumbering legs with my razor-like heels, this girl's gotta be willing to do "fancy," even before the rooster crows. Working my heels like a frantic parmesan-factory peon, I finally created a mostly even playing field down yonder and could begin my day.
These are the new realities of my life--a life now filled with frantic tweezing, unfettered farting, bilious bowels, thunderous snoring and more rough spots than I can shake a stick or a file at.
It's a miracle my family still talks to me. We'll see if I have any friends by Wednesday, considering I leave for a girl trip tomorrow morning.
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