My husband is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, handsome. A great dad. Knows his way around a grill. Will watch America’s Funniest Videos with me. Can catch and kill mosquitoes in mid-air with one hand. For eleven years, night after magical night, I have lain beside him in bed, studying the strong curve of his face, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and mentally rehearsing exactly how I’m going to kill him.
He knows he snores, and he’s really, really sorry. He’s tried nose strips, throat sprays, homeopathic remedies, palate guards, ergonomic pillows. The man 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 UARS (upper airway resistance syndrome) and OSA (obstructive sleep apnea). Eventually he was sent home with a diagnosis of MWCSBMSS (My Wife Can’t Sleep Because of My Snoring Syndrome), otherwise known as NMP (Not My Problem).
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