A couple of months ago I went in for a polysomnography (sleep study) to see if I have sleep apnea. I looked like this:
As if pushing the upper limit of middle-age with a thickening body that sprouts hair in the most inconvenient places isn’t enough to make a woman feel unattractive, sleeping with the long hose protruding from my nose whilst making Darth Vader noises adds to that empowering feeling of “I Am Woman, hear me roar!”
My husband tries to be supportive as I struggle to roll from obese back to overweight, in an effort to help the sleep apnea. While I gnaw on salad greens he offers encouraging phrases such as, “Does it bother you that I eat my chocolate Hagen Daas in front of you?” After he dislodges the pint from his nasal cavity, he gives me a back massage. I now look like this:
I think he may be getting it. The other night I awoke to find him shoving my nasal pillows back up my nostrils. Apparently, the mask had slipped and the resulting vortex alerted his survival instincts and he didn’t want to wake me, so he took action. At least, that’s what he told me. I think he’s afraid for his Hagen Daas.