Turns out I might be a psycho at night.
Almost every morning of my married life I have awoken to the ear doctor's shell-shocked expression and the re-telling of a mid-night horror story starring yours truly.
Sometimes I'm told about how I fell asleep on the couch at 9:45 and at 10:34 I woke up, gave him the death stare and in a seemingly irritated fit stomped my feet off to the bedroom.
Or I find out that in the middle of the night when the poor, poor ear doctor was shivering with cold he attempted to procure the tiniest scrap of covers and was met with my imposing white knuckled duvet death grip.
And then there's the time when, upon returning from a scary, middle of the night, low blood sugar-induced candy binge he is just getting comfortable again and thanking the gods above for not letting him die his usually kind and cheery wife begins to flop around like an irritated dying fish , thus immaturely communicating her displeasure with his slight coming-back-to-bed motion.
And please, let's not forget the times when he decides to stay up watching TV and I am in selfishly splayed across the dead center of the bed, denying him his requisite space in which to drift to slumberland.
And the crazy thing is that I never remember a single occurrence. Every time I'm told these things I'm wide eyed with shock and filled with disbelief. Because, really, all those sins committed by the same person? Really? It seems a bit far fetched, doesn't it?
So either I'm a raging circadian rhythm induced she-devil or the ear doctor has the most fantastic nocturnal imagination.