Sleeping with the Enemy

And after 426 days and 425 nights of blissful marriage, the inevitable happened.

Condon slept on the couch.

Now before you freak out and get the wrong idea, consider this. I was only there because both the wife and I have been fighting a cold, something fierce, and my ability to sleep soundly no matter what, paired with her ability to have her eyes wide open as I hack-cough so loud as if the Express Train was coming through our bedroom wasn’t quite working out. Being as chivalrous as my influenza-riddled brain could manage, I offered to sleep in the other room, so that we could both enjoy some rest and relief from fevers and allergies for a night.

Hello Sofa, my old friend.

As Spud mentioned in the closing to his killer Best Man speech, I had a history of couch-sleeping during my days as a bachelor. Now the only reason that this went on for so long was that despite our couch’s complete lack of comfort, it was a good night’s sleep. But then marriage came, and I spurned the Couch for a nice new bed with a nice new wife. And I slept better than an awkwardly used armrest could ever manage. There’s has never been a night since when I’ve favored staying put over going to the bedroom. So during the tenure of our marriage, I couldn’t even tell you if sleeping on the couch would still be the same.

Now I know. And the answer is NO.

When I used to sleep on the couch, I enjoyed placid, comforting sleep. Last night? I might as well have been on crack.

I’m not one of those people that often find their daily happenings permeating into their following night’s dreams. I find it fascinating for those who get to enjoy this. There’s probably a lot that can be interpreted from such an inclusion. But for me – things are way different. Take the weirdest dream I ever had, freshman year. I dreamt that Matt Weng came to me, as I was sitting on some dunes, and told me that the world had run out of vinyl siding. In addition, our crafty planners had come up with an effective substitute building material: toast. I didn't even have breakfast that day.

I wish I could make stuff like this up. YAB would be much funnier that way.

As I was falling asleep last night on the couch, I watched the ending to another great episode of CMT’s Trick My Truck. If you haven’t seen this show, you must. It’s a way better version of Pimp My Ride, since they overhaul 16-wheelers. And there’s no Xzibit. But when I turned off the TV and closed my eyes, the show didn’t end there. Maybe it was the couch or the medication, but another episode of the show started in my head. It was occurring in real-time, and I was watching as they tried to put together a killer truck for some trucker that depends on his rig to make a living. In other words, it’s a normal episode. So far.

But after about an hour of watching this dream version, it was clear that by the end of the show, they were nowhere near being completed. No doubt, this trucker’s life was about to be ruined. I woke up in a cold sweat, and hell, I may have even been crying. Who cares if this episode wasn’t real and I made it all up in my head? I was a wreck. I paced around the apartment for a good five minutes trying to separate reality from fiction. And from this debacle, I now know one thing.

Couch, you and I aren’t friends anymore.