2:47am this morning
I wake up, thinking the British Boy has fallen out of bed. Very strange, highly improbable but not entirely impossible, I suppose.
“Are you ok?”, I ask.
“The bed just collapsed”, he answers.
We both lie there a little longer, wondering, in our sleepy haze, if it really needs fixing. Given that my dear husband’s head is nearly touching the ground, the answer is an apparent yes.
I turn on the lamp, we both get out of bed and there we are, buck naked, 2:47am, moving a giant mattress and putting the crappy wooden slats back in place.
Heavy lifting and awkward bending whilst nude is not “good naked” but it sure as hell is funny naked.
“We need a new bed”, I say.
And this, to me, is what marriage is all about. A series of little moments. Sometimes he massages your left shoulder in that spot where it’s always sore, sometimes you make him a cup of tea after a long day at work. Other times, you laugh at the shitty bed and the bad naked at 2:47 in the morning. And it’s when you bring awareness to those little moments that you realize… actually, you have it pretty good.