Sleep Freedom by Matt Martin

I’m six-foot-three.  It’s a fact.  My official medical records prove it:  Matt Martin is six foot three.

I swear.

I’m just tall enough to get poked in the eye by a low-hanging tree branch while  shooting a coy smile at a girl.  Just tall enough to resist the urge to strangle every person who puts their seat back on an airplane and just tall enough to sometimes get uncomfortable when I have to sleep next to a girlfriend.

I say a girlfriend because, at the present time, I don’t have a girlfriend. Thank you, Valentine’s Day, for reminding me.  Don’t worry though, I didn’t want to partake in flower-gifting or fondue-sharing this year anyway.  So there, Valentine’s Day, you dirty little…alas, I digress.

Don’t get me wrong:  I’m no Shaq.  I don’t have four NBA Championship rings, I don’t have an awesome film to my credit (Kazaam has stood the test of time), nor do I have a sweet job working the TNT N.B.A Halftime Show with Kenny “The Jet” Smith and Charles “Chuck” Barkley.  Believe me, I wish I did.

What advantage does my height give me?  As far as I can tell, it merely makes sleeping next to someone a royal pain in the ass.

Of course, I can’t blame Valentine’s Day for being tall.  But I can blame Valentine’s Day for reminding me that I suffer from bouts of loneliness, existential despair and extreme longing for someone with whom to share my life.  I can blame Valentine’s Day for my propensity to commiserate to my laptop about the latest Downton Abbey episode…instead of talking to a real person.

This year, Valentine’s Day reminds me that, even if I am alone, I have my sleep freedom.  I define sleep freedom as, “The ability to sleep without the irritating conventions of cuddling.”

I’ve never done stand-up.  But if I did, I think I could do a solid five minutes on sleeping next to a girlfriend.  There’s a lot of material there.

My Last Girlfriend liked to cuddle.  Don’t feel bad Last Girlfriend, you weren’t the only one.  In fact, Last Girlfriend, you are a composite of a number of girlfriends with whom I’ve had this problem.

As the story goes;  it’s not you, it’s me.

Or, something like that.

Regardless, Last Girlfriend liked to wrap her stubby little arm around my back.  I’m sorry, Last Girlfriend, but your arms never quite wrapped entirely around my body (I thank you for never giving up the fight, though.) They only got half-way around.  This often led to a bicep resting on my shoulder, an elbow pointing toward the ceiling, a hand awkwardly swaying over my face and petite fingers lightly grazing my face.

Don’t worry, Last Girlfriend.  It didn’t drive me completely insane, it merely drove me from your bed.  It drove me from your bed because this insane cuddling only happened right as I was about to fall asleep.

Last Girlfriend, you were quite the heavy breather, too.  Because I was a head taller than you, your moist breath fogged my neck like a mirror.  On the bright side, it was kind of like having my own personal humidifier which, I guess, was cool.

Another cool thing:  if your arm wasn’t attempting to circle my chest, it tended to find its way to my crotch.  This, of course, was flattering and sexy the first few times it happened but it eventually drove me crazy.

Why?  Let’s use a baseball analogy.

You’re guarding the ‘hot corner’ (baseball slang for third base) and, out of nowhere, the attractive female shortstop comes from behind to jostle your jock right before the first pitch.  That wouldn’t suck the first seven times it happened, right?  But what if it happened before every play?  Every single game?  Every single night?

Every. Single. Night.

I really shouldn’t complain.  I mean, most guys would be ecstatic to have a heavy- handed girlfriend.  But when it’s two in the morning, when you have to be up in a few hours and you’re getting sleep-groped, it makes it damn near impossible to get any rest.

With your moist breath on my neck and your hand firmly attached to my junk, I would  fidget restlessly until I finally said, “Fuck it,” and made my way to the couch for a little sleep freedom and the relief of not being violated.

And boy, did I sleep.

It was that good kind of sleep, too, where everything goes completely dark and you’re asleep before a single thought has the chance to enter your mind.  Life-affirming sleep.  When-you-wake-up-you’re-ready-to-tackle-the-day kind of sleep.  The kind of sleep that inspires poets.

Unencumbered, deep sleep.

Yet, somehow, I woke up before my alarm clock went off, mind you, to a body clinging to my back like an injured climber clings to a Sherpa ascending Mt. Everest.

At that point, I’d had enough.  I struggled to free myself but you had a death grip on me and I was forced to talk over my shoulder, “Whyyyyy?” I pleaded.

“Why, what?”

“Why did you have to ruin my sleep?  You realize that sleep is important for the humans, don’t you?”

“It’s because I like to cuddle with you,” she cooed in her best baby talk voice.

“Oh my dear God.”

“Why did you come out here?”

“I couldn’t sleep!  I couldn’t handle it anymore!  I was tossing and turning while you slept soundly — like a baby with a new pacifier — for like, four hours.  I was a desperate man. I am a desperate man.  I would’ve pushed a really old lady into the street for no reason for just fifteen minutes of REM. sleep.”

“I’ve never heard of a boyfriend not wanting to sleep next to his girlfriend.”

“Kings and Queens have been doing it for centuries.  You need to read more.”

“So, you think I’m not well read?”

“Wow.  The best part of waking up isn’t Folgers in my cup, it’s this really smart conversation.”

“Why don’t you like to sleep next to me?”

“I do.”

“But only when you’re drunk?”

“It’s the only way I can get through the night,” I mumbled.

“So, you’re saying you need to be drunk in order to sleep next to your girlfriend?”

“No.  But, ya know what? I could use about nine drinks right now.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.” I flipped around to face the Dora The Explorer backpack that had been suctioned to the back of my body.  When I looked in her sad, beady eyes, that’s when I realized that it was Valentines Day and, even though I hated feeling like a spit guard at a salad bar, even though my man-business was being firmly cupped every hour she was near me, today was Valentine’s Day.  I realized I should probably cut her some slack, let her abuse my body and allow her to jump on my back like a baby orangutan.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.  Forget what I said, I love sleeping next to you.”

“Awww.”

And then we kissed.  But before it went too far…

“So, What’d you get me?”

When I joked and told her I didn’t get her anything, she jumped away from me with the speed of a jungle cat.

It was a Valentine’s Day Miracle!

So thank you, Valentines Day, for reminding me of Last Girlfriend.  Thank you for reminding me that I’m tall (but not Shaq tall) and of the career I should have had as a Sherpa.


Matt Martin is an MFA candidate at Columbia College Chicago, a graduate of the Conservatory Program of Second City Chicago, a Telly Award-winning writer of Just Off Rodeo and has been published in Trilling, Hair Trigger and Mad Licks.

Hypertext Magazine & Studio (HMS) publishes original, brave, and striking narratives of historically marginalized, emerging, and established writers online and in print. HMS empowers Chicago-area adults by teaching writing workshops that spark curiosity, empower creative expression, and promote self-advocacy. By welcoming a diversity of voices and communities, HMS celebrates the transformative power of story and inclusion.

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