Night before last, I slept 10 hours. I didn't have a choice, really. Usually I'll push through the first round of evening tiredness to hang out with Rob—the one-hour "date night," every night—but I was exhausted to the point of feeling drugged.
I got in bed shortly after Westley went down, and Rob came to pet my hair and work through his entire repertoire of sympathetic faces.
"What's going on?" I moaned. "It's like PMS, but way too soon. And I'm weirdly crampy."
"You did this exact same thing last month," Rob said.
"Yeah, remember that day I came home from work and you were in bed?"
"Oh yeah..." I had plopped Westley down in front of the TV with a snack and put on my pajamas while it was still light out. I think I was dreaming when Rob got home from work. "And was I crampy, too?"
"I think it's odd that you remember this and I don't."
"I think it's odd that you DON'T remember."
This is something about married life that I love: being observed. Or maybe "witnessed" would be a better word. In any case, Rob can keep tabs on my odd exhaustion patterns because he's not busy being me.