When Beloved and I were first together (nearly 30 years ago), I had an admittedly difficult time containing what my father used to refer to as “nauseating exuberance”. Truth be told, I still have a hard time keeping a lid on it at times. It’s morning and I’m happy-happy-happy!! My mother has it and to Daddy’s horror, it proved to be genetic.
But with the nauseating exuberance, I was so delighted with the whole idea of being alive I would sometimes… well… bounce on the bed early in the morning. Not like monkeys-on-the-bed, more like (I initially ended this sentence with “a gleeful little boink-boink-boink” but then I re-read the sentence and… uh… it didn’t read right…)
Anyway, it was all very innocent and a mirth-filled expression of my appreciation of life.
Except for the other resident of said mattress.
Ah, young love. Nearly broken by the… ah… merry little affliction of which I suffer. Can you imagine, Beloved wasn’t thrilled by my tendency to marvel in the miracle of the morning.
Until our first trip to England, not all that long after we first got together. We were staying in my parents’ flat when Beloved first exhibited an equally bizarre yet more enviable trait. She doesn’t seem affected by jet lag. Her body, on a cellular level, seems to not recognize time zones, instead reacting as though her circadian rhythm beats to whatever local drums occur. Usually that’s Britain, given my dual nationality and family still there.
Ooooh, time for bed? Hokay! She might take a little while to get to sleep, but once she’s out, she’s golden. It’s 2pm at home? Who cares, it’s sleepytime here.
You need me to get up now? Okay, hang on, lemme just shower.
I, on the other hand, harbor no such talents. I creep around until the wee hours, usually crashing by about 4am GMT, after repeatedly moaning “why? WHY??” to her gently snoring carcass.
Yes, I’m certain you can see what came next.
I will never, never bounce on the mattress while Beloved is sleeping ever, ever again.