The sound... and the fury

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).

I really, really love him. And I probably definitely won’t actually kill him. Instead of lying in bed and seething and imagining, for instance, using his $200 postural-alignment pillow to snuff the last deafening breath out of him, I will close my eyes and envision all of the millions of men out there who have an even more annoying habit than his. If your guy hums while he eats or showers you with spit when he talks, please drop me a line. I’ll take all the support I can get.