I’m lying in my bed with my boyfriend Preppy, enjoying that lovely fuzzy place just before I fall asleep. There’s freshly laundered sheets that smell like gardenias, and I’m curled up with a man I adore. I am officially content.
Then, just as I’m drifting off, a deafening noise pierces the silence, akin to someone starting a chainsaw next to my head. I bolt upright and look over, already knowing the source: Preppy is snoring.
Careful not to disturb his peaceful slumber, I roll him over on his side, which stops the chainsaw, replacing it with what I’ve come to call “The Death Rattle”. Sometimes the Rattle only lasts a few minutes before it subsides. No such luck tonight. I tilt his head forward. I stare at him and silently demand he stop this racket right now. The Rattle continues, supplemented by the sound the spit-sucker makes when you go to the dentist.
I rub his back and say, “Shhhh,” very gently. Then I say “Shhh,” a little less gently. And I shove him a little.
“Wha, huh?” says Preppy.
“You were snoring, baby.”
“Were you shushing me?”
“I was out of ideas. I thought it might make you stop.”
“How? I’m not doing it on purpose!”
“I know, I know,” I say. “Go back to sleep. Sorry.”
He floats back to his dreams. The Rattle returns, defiantly, with renewed vigor. I put a pillow over my head and pray for sleep.
On the phone the next day, my sister Shannon tells me to try lightly pinching his nostrils. It worked on her husband. So in bed that night, when the chainsaw massacre begins anew, I reach over and very carefully pinch his nose. It works! He instantly stops snoring. I want to dance a little jig, so great is my joy in this moment. Until I realize Shannon’s trick didn’t simply make Preppy stop snoring. He’s also not breathing.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus,” I think. “I killed my boyfriend.”
I shake him, which gives him a good jump start, his mouth falls slack, and a new instrument is added to the bedtime symphony: Sort of a mournful, moose-like sound. I decide this is my karmic punishment for trying to murder him in his sleep, put the pillow back on my head, and fail to sleep much.
The next morning, my roommate George notes that I’m unusually grumpy.
“Your reaction to this snoring business is beginning to concern me,” says George.
“Have you ever slept with a man that snores?” I ask.
“Darling, I’ve encountered every deficiency known to mankind. There were a few that snored. I thought it was kinda cute.”
“No, George. Golden retriever puppies with giant paws are cute. Sleep apnea is just frustrating. Plus it’s not good for him. I’m thinking of his welfare.”
“Bullshit, you’re thinking of your beauty rest. Personally, I think you just need to learn to sleep through it and accept that there are some things you can’t control.”
I’m really trying to do that, I swear. A few days before, I’d run across one of Preppy’s T-shirts in my bedroom. It was a Larry the Cable Guy shirt that said “Git Ur Done”. My first instinct upon finding it was to, of course, set it on fire in the back yard and play dumb later. And I know when I was with The Ex, that’s exactly what I would have done. That poor man lost half his wardrobe, item by item, when we started dating. My instinct anytime I run across something I don’t like is to make it go away immediately. I didn’t want to repeat those mistakes, so I folded the “Git Ur Done” t-shirt, and put it in his drawer.
Now, faced with the snoring quandary, I’m once again battling the question of whether to try and fix something, or accept it and let it go. I really wish there was an easy reference guide for relationships that I could consult in these scenarios. But, left to my own devices, I decide that I’m probably just adjusting to having someone sleeping in my bed on a regular basis, and with time I’ll get used to my bellowing boyfriend. I don’t need to force this issue. But there’s not any harm in picking up some Breathe-Right strips and casually leaving them on his side of the bed, just in case he’d like to try them out.
