round on the side of your foot. Or it keeps falling down, and comes off in your shoe. Those are bad socks.:
ME:
Yeah.
:
ADAM :
And they go to sock hell, and they go on a spin cycle for eternity. But every sock strives to be a good sock and go to the big sock drawer in the sky.:
âYou certainly are incredible. A perfect example of genetics gone wrong.â
Iâve heard it said that sleep talking may be genetic. Perhaps there is something to this. Adamâs mother doesnât quite talk in her sleep, but she does have her own special sleep behaviors. She sometimes has nightmares, in which she begins to scream. Now, in her dream, itâs a horror-movie scream. But the sound that actually comes out of her sleeping body can only be described as someone trying to do an impersonation of a siren, a rapid âWOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO!â Not a nice awakening for anyone else sleeping in the house. Sheâs also been known to carry out brief, amusing actions from a dream. One night, for example, Adamâs father woke up to find her sitting up, punching at the air. She woke up suddenly and when he asked what she was doing, she replied âI decked the au pair.â
Iâve recently started to wonder whether sleep talking is contagious. In these past couple of years, since Sleep Talkinâ Man emerged and became a hot topic of conversation among family and friends, weâve had a number of people in our livesâAdamâs father includedâstart talking in their sleep for the first time! Sounds to me like their subconsciouses are jealous of Adamâs subconscious.
Vampire penguins?
Zombie guinea pigs?
Weâre done for ⦠done for.
âImagine waking up next to you every day ⦠One chunder-bucket moment after anotherâ
If you were previously unfamiliar with the term, you have probably now pieced together the meaning of âchunder-bucketâ for yourself. If not, think barf bag and youâll be on the right track. This sort of utterance makes me so thankful that Iâm married to Adam, who courted me with the utmost determination to make me his wife, rather than STM, who associates married life with perpetual vomiting.
From the moment that he came through the airport doors on our first reunion, Adam was intent on marrying me. He was not perturbed by the cynics of the world, including the one that was, it would seem, lying dormant in his own subconscious.
Adam started dropping marriage into the conversation from the second day of that first visit(you remember, the one where we were just getting together for a friendly cup of coffee). He didnât talk about it, in a serious heart-to-heart. Nor did he toss it out there in jokey, offhand comments, as though testing the waters. He simply referred to our future life together as a part of normal conversation, as a foregone conclusion, with utter confidence in the rightness of it.
But I needed a bit of convincing. On that first visit, I wasnât sure how I felt: I had a lot of baggage from our shared past that needed unpacking and discarding. I also needed some time to reconcile Adam at thirty-four with the eighteen-year-old boy with whom I had first fallen in love. It was a lot to work through. So whenever Adam confidently asserted the inevitability of our future nuptials, I changed the subject without pretense of subtlety. I wasnât denying, but I certainly wasnât confirming.
Adam returned home from our six-day coffee date without any proclamations of love or assurances of a future from me. We had three more weeks of nightly Skyping, and then I, still quite unsure of my feelings, flew over to his stompinggrounds to bring in the New Year. It was on December 30, on the escalator of the Tate Modern, that the last of my doubts fell away and I knew I was unquestionably in love with Adam. The certainty hit me all at once, the same way I instantly felt his presence on that first night in Israel half of our
ME:
Yeah.
:
ADAM :
And they go to sock hell, and they go on a spin cycle for eternity. But every sock strives to be a good sock and go to the big sock drawer in the sky.:
âYou certainly are incredible. A perfect example of genetics gone wrong.â
Iâve heard it said that sleep talking may be genetic. Perhaps there is something to this. Adamâs mother doesnât quite talk in her sleep, but she does have her own special sleep behaviors. She sometimes has nightmares, in which she begins to scream. Now, in her dream, itâs a horror-movie scream. But the sound that actually comes out of her sleeping body can only be described as someone trying to do an impersonation of a siren, a rapid âWOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO!â Not a nice awakening for anyone else sleeping in the house. Sheâs also been known to carry out brief, amusing actions from a dream. One night, for example, Adamâs father woke up to find her sitting up, punching at the air. She woke up suddenly and when he asked what she was doing, she replied âI decked the au pair.â
Iâve recently started to wonder whether sleep talking is contagious. In these past couple of years, since Sleep Talkinâ Man emerged and became a hot topic of conversation among family and friends, weâve had a number of people in our livesâAdamâs father includedâstart talking in their sleep for the first time! Sounds to me like their subconsciouses are jealous of Adamâs subconscious.
Vampire penguins?
Zombie guinea pigs?
Weâre done for ⦠done for.
âImagine waking up next to you every day ⦠One chunder-bucket moment after anotherâ
If you were previously unfamiliar with the term, you have probably now pieced together the meaning of âchunder-bucketâ for yourself. If not, think barf bag and youâll be on the right track. This sort of utterance makes me so thankful that Iâm married to Adam, who courted me with the utmost determination to make me his wife, rather than STM, who associates married life with perpetual vomiting.
From the moment that he came through the airport doors on our first reunion, Adam was intent on marrying me. He was not perturbed by the cynics of the world, including the one that was, it would seem, lying dormant in his own subconscious.
Adam started dropping marriage into the conversation from the second day of that first visit(you remember, the one where we were just getting together for a friendly cup of coffee). He didnât talk about it, in a serious heart-to-heart. Nor did he toss it out there in jokey, offhand comments, as though testing the waters. He simply referred to our future life together as a part of normal conversation, as a foregone conclusion, with utter confidence in the rightness of it.
But I needed a bit of convincing. On that first visit, I wasnât sure how I felt: I had a lot of baggage from our shared past that needed unpacking and discarding. I also needed some time to reconcile Adam at thirty-four with the eighteen-year-old boy with whom I had first fallen in love. It was a lot to work through. So whenever Adam confidently asserted the inevitability of our future nuptials, I changed the subject without pretense of subtlety. I wasnât denying, but I certainly wasnât confirming.
Adam returned home from our six-day coffee date without any proclamations of love or assurances of a future from me. We had three more weeks of nightly Skyping, and then I, still quite unsure of my feelings, flew over to his stompinggrounds to bring in the New Year. It was on December 30, on the escalator of the Tate Modern, that the last of my doubts fell away and I knew I was unquestionably in love with Adam. The certainty hit me all at once, the same way I instantly felt his presence on that first night in Israel half of our
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