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reasons to ignore the potentially deadly risks and go for it anyway. In addition to the obvious benefits of co-sleeping (sex and spooning, essentially), he holds up the results of a study out of Australia that found—and I am not making this up—that “men sleep better when they are sleeping next to someone else.” Which simultaneously infuriates (what about me , dude?) and mystifies me. Because I find it hard to believe that my husband is getting a restful night’s sleep when I am punching him every ten minutes and hissing at him to roll the fuck over . And if we’re being honest here, I’d be sort of annoyed if he were.
    The thing is, Joe snores. Not occasionally or delicately, either, I’m afraid. He’s so damned contrite about it that I’ve even stopped believing that he’s doing it intentionally just to piss me off. He’s tried every single remedy I’ve angrily hurtled at him: nose strips, throat sprays, homeopathic remedies, palate guards, ergonomic pillows. The man willingly paid close to a monthly mortgage payment to spend a miserable night in a sleep clinic, where the doctors—upon vigilant observation—were able to rule out several life-threatening conditions including UARS (Upper Airway Resistance Syndrome) and OSA (Obstructive Sleep Apnea). After much humiliating poking and prodding his heart was deemed robust, his septum arrowstraight. Eventually he was sent home with a diagnosis of MWCSBMSS (My Wife Can’t Sleep Because of My Snoring Syndrome), otherwise known as NRMP (Not Really My Problem). Two weeks later I had a nice $150 pair of custom earplugs to help me deal with “my condition.”

“At Least You’re Not Married to Him”
    My husband has to shake his leg or foot to fall asleep, every night. It makes it impossible to read in bed without feeling nauseous.
    KRISTA
     
     
    If only Joe’s snoring was the singular thing preventing me from getting a solid stretch of rest. No, even on the rare silent night, trying to come to any sort of compromise regarding our bedroom’s atmospheric conditions is harder than drowning a tractor-size helium balloon in a two-inch puddle. You’d think I was one of those anorexic, hairless cats and Joe was a fifteenhundred-pound polar bear by the irreconcilable differences in our core body temperatures.
    “Your internal thermostat is totally fucked up,” Joe will insist. Why? Because I can’t feel my extremities and it’s a balmy fifty-five degrees in here? If you set up a hidden video camera in our bedroom, here’s a glimpse of what you might see on any given evening:
    Me, quickly slipping into my sexy camo sweatpants, thermal long-sleeve tee, and triple-ply chenille knee socks. I begin the elaborate process of removing and stacking the bed’s dozen-or-so decorative throw pillows neatly on the window seat, hopping and performing mini jumping jacks in an effort to prevent my blood from freezing right there in my veins.
    Joe, entering the room fully dressed. Ignoring my warm-up routine entirely, he proceeds to open all of the windows and turn on the ceiling fan . When he is finished, he artfully raises a single eyebrow at me (translation: “That’s right, bitch. I want it nice and frigid in here when I come back in two hours.”) before leaving the room to go watch TV.
    I roll my eyes and shut the door, sticking my tongue out at him from behind the hinged slab of wood that separates us. Then I quickly and quietly close the windows and turn off the ceiling fan before bounding into the bed, where I frantically tug one sheet, two blankets, and the duvet-wrapped Permabaffle eiderdown comforter up to my quivering chin.
    Joe returns minutes later under the guise of “getting his slippers,” but of course he is there for one reason: to make sure the windows are still open and the fan is still on . They are neither.
    “Really?” he demands, flipping the fan switch by the door.
    “Really,” I reply, daring to dart an arm out of the velvety warmth of my