“I love my husband, but I want my own bed.” Really?

by An Ordinary Man (the novel)

Richard entered the guest room and closed the door. It was sparsely furnished; a bed, a nightstand, a dresser; all of bolt-together construction, IKEA-style, perhaps reflecting haste in putting a place for him to stay together on short notice. The bed, of course, was for two, with flowered linens that would appeal to a feminine eye. An interesting de facto standard of the Western world. Who wants to sleep alone? These days, he did. If you are alone in bed, it’s easier to figure out why you are not having sex, or not at least in contact with parts related to sex. Liz didn’t seem to understand that sometimes he just wanted to run his hand over her surfaces, pausing now and then to appreciate and affirm them, rather than to arouse her. Maybe she would be less resistant if she knew that that quick pass between the thighs was sometimes more proprietary than sexual, kind of like checking on anything else of extreme value before you shut your eyes for the night.

An article by Holly Allen, entitled “The Case for Separate Beds” that I found on Slate.com, relates how wonderful it was to sleep by herself in the guest room one night when she decided to “quietly slip down the hallway” on a night that her husband was “sick and gross.” Her co-workers apparently agreed with her, at least to some extent, and she dug out the indisputable health benefits of a good night’s sleep. But yet at the end of the article, she wrote “[t]hough when I gingerly mentioned this theory to my husband and he agreed with me, I did feel a tiny bit hurt.”

Yes, exactly. I miss my wife every night before I fall asleep and every morning I wake up. Not to mention when nightmares and worries wake me in between. No other woman sleeps with me and it is one of the things that made her special.

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