I've told you how over the past year I've become a chronic bed sweater. [On a side note: Could this possibly be related to the anxiety that exploded when I moved to Massachusetts? Hmm? COULD IT?!] I'll drift off to sleep comfortably snuggled in my bed and I'll wake up in the middle of the night wetter than a skantily clad spring break co-ed in a wet t-shirt contest. Sweat dripping down my back, my hair matted, my entire side of the bed soaked down to the mattress. Just plain ol' nasty. About as nasty as I assume one would feel after waking up the morning after a wet t-shirt contest on spring break.
When I wake up, I'm freezing. I literally have to towel off. I'll throw on a fresh t-shirt, but then I always come face to face with the sheets. How can I crawl back into a bed that is soaked with my own sweat? It's just ... gross. And ... cold. And that's when B will wake up and reach over to feel the sheets. "Sweating?" he'll ask. "Yes," I'll sigh. "You cold?" he'll ask. "Yes," I'll sigh again. And that's when he'll pull me into his clean, dry side of the bed, and consciously roll over into my cold, wet side.
Every time I sweat the bed, B gives me his dry side and spends the rest of the night wrapped up in my cold, disgusting sweat sheets.
If THAT'S not true love, then I went and married one sick, sick man.Tweet