I love waking up in a pool of drool. Right? First thought: I really nailed that REM sleep. What did I do to earn this river of wetness on my cheek? Did I beat Roger Federer in tennis? Did I run a few eight-minute miles? Maybe I painted and wall papered the entire apartment and have no memory of it. More than likely, it was something as mundane as doing that extra load of laundry that exhausted me.
I'm sure when this happens to you, like for me, you think: Wait! Is this a sea of saliva that has me stuck to the bedding or did I get stabbed in the middle of the night? Could this be my blood bubbling out of me onto my freshly laundered, crisp white sheets? Sheet! I mean Shit!
I do a few concentrated breaths. I slowly move my limbs and joints: finger, toe, elbow, ankle. I feel quite good. I'm pretty confident I've gone off the deep end with this blood idea. Without even opening my eyes, I dismiss the theory that my husband stabbed me a little in the middle of the night because of the medium-rare chicken cutlets I served for supper. (He spent most of the night in the bathroom, so I don't think he had much strength left.) Full disclosure here, I watch a lot of Law and Order and Happy Valley.
As I lie here a couple more minutes, the wetness kinda starts to gross me out. Ick--my spit slithering all up and down my cheek and temple, even coating some of my eye lashes and a few strands of hair. (I am talking serious REM!) I pull my face off the pillowcase, swipe my hand on the wet mess and caress my husband's side of the bed. Lucky for him, he's not there.
I just changed the bedding yesterday. I'm not doing it again--and I'm not mixing different sheets with different pillowcases! Don't even go there! I eye the dry pillowcase on the other side of the bed. What the hell! A quick switcheroo, saliva side up so it dries in the next 16 hours and he'll never know (unlike the cutlets last night). Note to you solo sleepers: If you can't stand the thought of laying your head on a pillowcase that was drenched in your drool, simply turn it over. By nighttime, the spittle scenario will be long forgotten and you won't see the slight tell-tale sign of dried spit that resembles a Rorschach ink blot.
I can't help but think of when my children were babies. They drooled when they were happy. They drooled when they cried. They drooled while having a fitful night's sleep. I guess they pretty much drooled all the time.
Lying here in bed, all damp and cozy, I like to think I just channeled my inner-infant. And I think that's a good thing.
Now to get up and go downstairs. Hey, maybe I really did wallpaper the apartment.
