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Broke Wife, Big City
Box Spring Hot Box
By Aprill Brandon
It was the title that came first. It floated up from the mysterious
depths of my sleep deprived brain, like a phoenix rising from the ashes
of a terrible night.
Or arose like a zombie. That wanted to eat my brain. Was eating my brain. Or something.
I’m so tired.
Anyway, the point is. What is the point? Oh, right. The point is I know
what you’re thinking. What is up with that title? It’s a funny story
actually. It was the title that came first.
Wait, I already said that.
OK. Where was I? There I was, trapped for hours, trapped in a hell of my own making, when it came to me.
Box Spring Hot Box.
Heh. That’s really funny, I thought to myself. Although now that I’m
writing this, it’s not quite as clever as it sounded at 3 a.m. It’s
mildly amusing at best. But if I change it now then I have to rewrite
the whole beginning and no one is really going to read this anyway
except my mom so... moving on.
What is a box spring hot box, you ask? Well, it started out fine. Sweet
even. A tale as old as sleep. I was gently nudged out of a deep slumber
by the horrifying sensation that a presence near me was breathing
heavily. My eyelids fluttered open to behold an extra from Stephen
King’s “Children of the Corn” staring at me. Confusingly, this tiny
devil mumbled something about having a nightmare and so I resisted the
urge to dropkick the creepy face long enough to wipe the sleep out of
my eyes, where I realized the monster was my own child.
So I let him crawl into bed with us. Just for a minute, I said sternly,
both of us knowing that I am a gigantic liar, liar, stained pajama
pants on fire.
So he hopped on up, laying on top of the covers and immediately taking
up more real estate than was necessary for a 45-pound body. Meanwhile I
scooched closer to my husband, who was blissfully snoring away on my
other side, the covers wrapped around him like a tortilla. Meanwhile
meanwhile, the dog, disturbed by all this commotion, sighed
exasperatedly and scooched over as well, moving to lay at the bottom of
my feet.
It was nice at first. Cozy. For a moment I even started to think I
understood why all those hippies insist the entire family sleep in the
same bed. I was surrounded by love.
And body heat. I was surrounded by all the body heat.
Why was everyone giving off so much heat? Who decided 98.6 degrees is a
reasonable number? It’s a ridiculous temperature for a human body. Why
can’t we all be a balmy 77?
It was hot. So bloody hot. And I was trapped under the covers. I tried
squirming out but was blocked by the headboard. The dog was blocking
the southern exit and there was also the irrational fear that I would
get stuck midway and end up roasted to death, cooked by my very own
family.
Why didn’t I just wake one of them up, I hear you asking. Well, well, well, aren’t we just full of questions today.
Sorry. I’m a bit cranky. I don’t know if you heard but I didn’t get much sleep last night.
Anyway, waking up either my son or husband so that I could crawl out
would have been the logical thing to do. Hence the problem. You’re
talking logic. Logic at an illogical time during an illogical year.
And, let’s face it, with a ridiculous specimen of a woman.
To my credit, I did briefly flirt with the idea of waking one of them
up. Actually, I was so hot I flirted with the idea of shoving them onto
the floor full force just to feel fresh air on my body again. But then
I looked over at my loud snoring burrito, who had been working round
the clock from home for months. Stressed and exhausted. Then I turned
my head to look at my very own Vitruvian Man, just splayed out in all
his tiny glory, who has been struggling with a world that doesn’t make
sense and nightmares of Mommy and Daddy getting sick. Even the
hellhound at my feet, even if I was willing to crawl out that way, is
about to turn 15. He’s been such a good boy, even though his hips hurt
and we kept bringing babies home from the hospital without ever once
consulting him.
They all deserved sleep. Peaceful sleep. Or so it seemed in my muddled mind at 3 a.m.
So I lay in my box spring hot box for the rest of the night.
Alternating between analyzing my latest dream (playing basketball with
Brad Pitt, where he kept making baskets by throwing the ball from
behind his back all while discussing the writing of James Agee, whom I
have never read) and replaying every embarrassing moment from junior
high (which are numerous and still not funny to me yet).
Then, like a rainbow after the storm, my husband grunted and farted and
I knew the long night had ended. I would soon be free. He was a mere
yawn and unselfconscious scratch away from being awake.
And the point to all this is…
What is the point? There is a point. I came up with it somewhere around
paragraph three. I need more coffee. Oh yes, the point is, I yelled at
my kids today. For picking their noses and not cleaning their rooms
like I asked. I was snippy with my husband, who made the mistake of
standing there. I even had a very stern talking to with the dog who
keeps aggressively shedding.
And so the point is I wrote this to let them all know how much I love
them. Even when I’m cranky and tired and yelling. Love comes out in
many different and often strange ways. Ways like staying up half the
night because you just want the ones you love to find as much peace as
possible in this world.
Although next time, I think I’ll just kick one of you to the floor and show you my love by getting a good night’s sleep myself.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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