WHEN IT COMES TO SPOONING, I'M ALL FORK

I may be a full-fledged, red-blooded consumer, but when my wife recently attempted to sell me on the idea that a man invented spooning, well, I just wasn’t buying it.

Of course, this conversation sprung from her most recent efforts to convince me to spoon with her while we slept. And my most recent attempts to avoid the position by pretending I was a fork.

Now, I believe I am as romantic as the next guy (especially if he happens to be a three-hundred-pound construction worker), but when I go to sleep I typically need a little space. And space is the antithesis of what you get when engaged in the act of spooning. Not to mention the fact that when I’m forced to sleep on my side, I usually wake up in the middle of the night screaming: “They’ve amputated my arm! They’ve amputated my arm!”

No, for most men, spooning is sort of like being pregnant -- sure, we understand how it works but, physically, we simply can’t do it.

The issue of spooning really touches on a somewhat larger subject: The conflicting sleeping habits of men and women.

Take our house, for instance. I cannot fall asleep unless it’s below 70 degrees in our bedroom. Just can’t do it. I will toss and turn, flip my pillow continuously to the cool side (“Come to the cool side, Luke…”) and otherwise lie awake feeling like a sweathog if the temperature rises even a degree above this threshold.

My wife, on the other hand, would fall asleep instantly in Hades (not that I believe you belong there, honey). Some like it hot, and she’s definitely one of them.

So, after years of scientific study and scrupulous testing, we’ve arrived at an arrangement that seems to work for us. First, we lower the temperature below 70 degrees, which enables me to fall asleep beneath a mere sheet and blanket. Then, on the other side of our bed, my flannel-wearing wife burrows beneath a sheet, three blankets and, on occasion, a heating pad. Of course, this is our plan for summertime; in winter, things really get crazy.

Still, the arrangement tends to work okay, though sometimes when I’m feeling amorous I find myself rebuffed simply because I cannot locate my wife between all of those layers.

Another area we differ on is background noise. I prefer none. Just give me plenty of quiet and keep it coming.

Not surprisingly, my wife is partial to noise, especially talk radio. Tune in late night chit chat and she immediately tunes out. The problem is, I can’t help but listen to the conversations, regardless of how mind-numbing. Eventually, I find myself taking sides and, next thing I know, I’m calling in myself.

“Our next caller is Marc from Novi. Go ahead, Marc.”

“Okay. Well, I really think they should try and work it out. I understand why she got upset when she discovered he has a second wife back in Utah, but maybe it just means he really cares about women.”

I’ve also noticed that my wife and I fall asleep in completely different ways. Once she slides beneath all of her layers, she lies perfectly still until she passes into dreamland. Of course, the massive weight of the bedding likely has something to do with it.

On the other side of the bed, I tend to move and adjust and twitch and roll until, like a restless canine, I find just the right sleeping position.

While I squirm, I am occasionally confronted by a muffled voice issuing the following command: “Please cut that out.”

“What?” This is my pat response to many a spousal request.

“Moving around,” she will say, disregarding my innocent act. “I swear you’ve got bedtime A-D-D.”

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” I explain. “You want me to be comfortable, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. In fact, I have just the thing for that.”

Next thing you know, I’m stuck on my side in the spooning position.

Yeah, well, I didn’t need that arm anyway.

(c) Marc L. Prey 2002
All rights reserved.