Waking and Walking

Recently, my husband and I have been watching a show on Netflix called Queer Eye.  The premise of the show is that five gay men make over a regular guy who is not living up to his fashion and lifestyle potential.  Mostly, they focus on clothing, grooming and home décor, but what becomes evident is that the recipient of the makeover has neglected himself in some capacity.  Thus, it becomes an emotional journey of receiving attention; something that most men find difficult.  Men deserve this.  The Fabulous Five help by giving them back their confidence and also, by breaking down barriers. 

Why do men neglect self-care?  They certainly deserve it.  Some men rely on their wives for nearly all of their emotional and physical needs.  While I don’t mind being a “soft place to fall” I have encouraged my husband to pursue more time with his male friends.  I live in a house of males, and can roll with the jokes about bodily functions and watch action movies, but I can never provide authentic male camaraderie.  I could not be, despite Andy Gibb’s tune his “Everything”.   Besides, I don't know how to match brown shoes and suits.

So when my husband told me he was going to begin walking with a group of friends I was thrilled.  What I didn’t expect was that it would become a daily ritual that would disrupt my life in an extreme way.

Most days, except for rain, he rises at 4:30 am, gathers our dogs and meets his posse in Monterey, near the wharf by 5:00.  They walk to Pacific Grove and back, covering on average, about six miles.

The problem is that his alarm awakens me.  If I heard the chirping and that was it, I’d be fine.  But, it doesn’t end there.  Even more aggravating are his attempts to be silent.  Painfully and slowly I hear the squeak of a drawer, the long drag of oak railing hitting a nail that needs adjusting.  Why drag it out?  Just open it quickly, like ripping off a Band Aid.   Then, there is the riffling.  Where is his perfect fleece?  He isn’t sure, so to add to the dawn chorus, he flicks on the flashlight of his cell phone illuminating the room in toxic blue light.  His clomping, which I'm sure he would define as a tip toe, renders him closer to the bed as he attempts to gather the dogs.  The dogs, 10 year old, Havanese, need persuading in the dark.  They often refuse to stir. 

Choco.  I hear him whisper.

Patches, Come on. 

I then hear the jingles of the collars as they slowly rise from their dog beds.  The tapping of small paws mingling back into my dreams while G closes the bedroom door with the speed of Grade A molasses.

His attempts at quiet are small audible tortures; a symphony of needles prodding my delicate sleep.

Usually, this ritual, which woke me up five times per week for over a year, left me stewing in resentment.  I was not sleeping well back then, and those auditory intrusions compromised the restorative REM cycle.  Getting back to sleep was a hit or miss situation.  Sometimes, I’d try guided meditation.  Often, I’d stew until just as I was dropping off again, I’d hear them return 90 minutes later.  I am not naturally friendly in the morning, preferring to keep interactions limited.  I married someone who wakes up chipper and talkative.  I remember when first married, G would always roll over happily and say “Cappucino?”  I wanted to smack him.  But, I didn’t understand why.

My morning state is the reason I don’t drink alcohol.  When our boys were small, I realized that like wine and jagermeister,  young children and hangovers do not mix.  Thankfully I had enough common sense to avoid alcohol, lest I be grumpy for the poor little darlings who only wanted cereal and Tellytubbies.  I never went back to drinking.  I needed a clear head for things like making lunches, filling backpacks and making it to the bus stop on time. 

Typically, I only bow down to one object in the morning, that being a black cup of coffee.  Every morning, that first sip of rocket fuel boosts my senses.  It’s always the first sip that’s the best; chasing that java dragon. I don’t even finish an entire cup. 

But even coffee wasn’t taking away the edge of mania that I walked from lack of sleep.  G's walking ritual was getting on my last nerve.  The constant disruption of sleep was causing me to resent this happy man.

I asked him why they had to walk so early.  Can’t you walk a bit later?  What is wrong with 6:00 o’clock?  You might actually be able to see, instead of walking in the dark.

No, I go to work, dear, he said with a note of sarcasm.

I was not the only one who suffered.  Jack was waking Jill up too.

Why do they do this so early?  I complained to my friend.  I don’t understand it.

Oh, I don’t know, but its good for them.  I usually just get up.  The only thing that bothers me is that Jack never watches TV with me in the evenings anymore.  He’s in bed by 7:00.

Why don’t you walk with us?  The guys would ask.

No thank you.  I think that getting up at 6:30 is much more humane plan; especially if you don’t have to be anywhere until 8:00.

We are now into the third year of the walking ritual.  Throughout this time I have been so conflicted.  I considered moving into another bedroom to get quality sleep, but this would compromise our relationship too much.  I like sleeping with G; it’s his wake habits that make me want to throttle him.

Recently, I spoke of this to my personal trainer, R.  R whom I’ve been working out with for over four years, at the normal hour of 8:00 o’clock, is my thrice-weekly butt kicker who knows our family well.  He has the uncanny ability to discern my drama.  Part personal trainer, part psychiatrist, his answer to my dilemma was so simple that  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before.

Just have him lay out all his clothes and stuff in the other bathroom the night before.

It made sense.  I suggested it . We are the only ones who sleep upstairs.  Not only do we have two bathrooms to ourselves, we also have two guest rooms.

But, it took some training.   First, G had his Lululemon workout clothes piled neatly over the towel rack in our bathroom.  I can’t blame him.   It is heated.

Ah, ah, ah…I said, moving the pile with care, to the guest bathroom.

It worked!

Now, all I hear are small claws plodding across the floor and the slip of the door as he shuts it. Ninety percent of the time, I’m able to resume sleep.

What man, gay or straight wouldn’t want a personal boudoir?  G has officially made the smaller guest room his dressing room.   His laundry basket is now in there, and he started hanging up his shirts from the dry cleaners.  A great place to dress; he lays out his clothing on the bed to plan his outfits.  He has a mirror, so he can admire himself from every angle.  You look marvelous indeed, sweet husband.  I never thought I’d see the day.  Last night, I saw him standing in the hallway in brightly colored boxers, his compact fit body, making its long journey toward the king sized bed.

He's one of the best sousl I know. 

Equilibrium has been restored.

In the stillness of the morning I rise between 6:00 and 6:30, naturally to quiet.  Slipping into the kitchen, I make coffee and relish the silence.  I’m always glad to hear the car and see all of their faces.  G’s and the two furry one’s, refreshed and invigorated by their routine amble.

Here lays a slice of life with a happy ending; a problem that was solved by which both parties gained something.  Marriage is the Land of Compromise.  You get to choose: a promised land or a dry desert of contention.  I choose peace and I’m so happy that the waking and walking has reached an accord.