Science says that sleeping with somebody is good for you.
Unless they mean in the colloquial, porking-someone-on-the-reg kinda way, I’mma call bullshit.
“That was nice. Now leave. I’ve still got an hour before the alarm and I didn’t get this hot by playing snooze spoons.”
And my premature judgment based on only my own personal life experiences is likely at least half right, to be fair. Because science also says that the quality of hiring on a co-captain for naptime is only increased if we are in a good relationship. (Always an effing catch.) However, as we are human and totally 100% capable of re-navigating our relationship ship from turmoil to tranquil waters, we can use this half-fact to our advantage if we like. In other words, if we improve the quality of our interactions during the day with our significant others, we can also improve the quality of what happens during our non-interaction with them at night. The biology behind this is that feel-good hormone called oxytocin increases when we are among others in certain situations. Apparently sleep’s one of ‘em. OTC (that’s my abbrev. for it) makes us feel warmer, more open, and able to trust. I suppose that the yes-and to this on a scientific level would be that if you wake up during the night (a time which heaps of peeps feel their loneliest -following the death of day, when they’re immersed in a lack of light and wondering if the sun will ever rise again) it’s more comforting to know that someone is there and that you’re not alone. Versus, I suppose, waking up in a solitary panic, and thusly spiraling into a Kafka-esque lucid dream until the alarm goes off again.
Yeah… I’ll take my Kafka with a side of Kava tea, please.
‘cause I feel like this study fails to include people like me who are greedy sleepers and like to take up space. Don’t get me wrong. Despite popular opinion, I enjoy a good cuddle. For a few seconds. But then there’s that part of me that kicks in, kicks out the oxytocin, and kicks you in the nads (or snatch. I don’t discriminate). It’s that mistrustful, programmed part of me that believes you might – at any moment – morph into a down-syndrome child holding a hamster, and squeeze me like a boa constrictor if I remain in your choke hold for even a second more.
So get off me.
The other aspect of that is that my greedy sleeps have a source: I have a lot of energy in my body.
I work out twice a day and that’s still not enough to stop me from thrashing like a kraken in bed all night. Were I to set up a camera Paranormal style, we’d probably all get a really fun seaworld-on-dry-land show, seeing my four limbs double into some inimical mattress octopus, dealing deathblows to invisible enemies until 3 A.M. when I wake up in a sweat, gasping, and unaware as to why.
Why isn’t science accounting for these important variables?
’cause if anyone tried to sleep with me, our day relache would be irreparable between our quasi-conscious werewolf Bobby and Whitney nights. Regardless of how nice we were. It wouldn’t matter if I started every morning by issuing a blow job as you enjoy the Venti Americano I’ve woken up early to go get for you. If I was subjecting you to how I am after lights out, you’d wanna put them out permanently by the time the sun rose.
I’d say more research is needed and science is being racist against my genre of Jeckyll and Hyde sleepers.
But really, it’s not their fault. You couldn’t pay subjects to knowingly sleep next to someone like me.
And if my violent cohort members are anything like me, they wouldn’t even want you to.
