Remember sleep overs? Back in the day with
your pink jammies and your BFFs?
Oh… and midnight snacks?
Well, I never quite got the midnight snacks
part. I remember waking up one morning and staring at my BFF in horror. “What
happened to your cheek?” I asked shocked at the vast red handprint over her
face.
“You should know,” she said, “You did it.”
Apparently, I don’t like being
woken up from REM sleep very much.
I had hoped I had left this violent streak
in my past, but this morning I find myself in the dog box for a similar
discretion. I had on my earphones and was deep into White Light Guided
Mediation from Dick Sutphen. My body was on the earthly plane, but the rest of
me was floating happily somewhere in the ether.
Suddenly and without warning I was jolted
back awake, sat bolt upright and began a frantic fight with the earphone wires while
trying to make sense of the hell was going on.
My husband had touched my stomach -
specifically that inch or two of skin just above my hip. The feeling is akin to
having 2000 volts of electricity shot through my system.
I have no idea why
that little patch of nerve endings renders me insensible, but last night it
sent me jackknifing across the bed. I ended up somehow throwing my elbow back
just as my spouse lent forward, smashing his glasses into little bitty pieces
and probably leaving him with a black eye.
Needless to say I slept alone last night. I
maintain that although I landed the killing blow, it wasn’t pre-meditated and
therefore falls in the realm of a horrible misunderstanding and terrible
accident.
I then picked up a spade and began to dig
myself a trench, or a final resting place. I just can’t help it, no matter what
I say I make it worse, so I’m writing this blog knowing that as I’ll be sent to
Coventry anyway, I may as well record it for prosperity.
I hope you are alright.
I love you, please forgive me.
PS: The moral of the story
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