Ever wish your lover was more vocal in bed?
Well, be careful what you wish for.
Because you might just end up with a loquacious slumberer instead of… whatever your dirty mind was thinking just now. Case in point? Last serious relationship I was in. Dude was half Brock O’ Hurn, half hulk. And that persona didn’t disappear when he drifted off to dreamland either – which, I assume was filled with motorcycle-satan centaurs violently assaulting one another. Especially when he would quasi come to consciousness only to issue a slew of colorful invectives to some unseen entity. (He seemed pretty committed to it, though, so I always had to check around the room to confirm the drama was solely unfolding within the confines of his mind.)
(To be fair, though, he was the same way in waking life. #consistency)
Then, one day, I got on the receiving end of it. Homeboy’d dozed off in the middle of some cinematic flop we’d opted to watch. I was trying my hardest to follow it through to the finish (so that, inevitably, when he woke up and asked me how it ended, I’d have a good answer; though generally I just made something up). But, as I neared the climax of the flick (not saying much), I felt a sudden plummet of his arm onto mine. “STFU!” he bellowed in non-acronym form, in a voice not unlike the one you’d hear in a Mushroomhead song. Carefully, using as few cervical (that’s neck; not vaginal) muscles as I could, I cocked (that’s motion; not penis) my head to the side to check the status of his eyelids. Closed, I confirmed, deducing he was just having a moment. I began to proceed watching the abomination on my screen some more. FLOP! The vexed gesture of my boyfriend’s arm this time was accompanied by another profane statement. This time, personal. It would’ve been the funniest thing ever had I not made it funnier by making the mistake of engaging him in subconscious dialog:
“Oh?” I asked, not expecting a reply.
“YEAH,” he surprisingly retorted curtly.
“You’re having a dream, hun,” I tried, fully expecting to ruin my own fun.
“NO,” he insisted, “You guys are sitting there talking sh*t about me!”
“You’re dreaming!” I again attempted.
This time, his eyes opened a little – upper and lower lids, still semi embracing one another via booger glue.
“No,” he began sardonically, “You were all right there, trying to-…”
Then as his wits slowly were restored, he looked around the room, realizing he’d just emerged from a different reality. His eyes darted in my direction – then quickly back – to avoid the kind of eye contact you hafta make when you realize you might’ve just done something dumb. Genuinely amused, I kept my gaze fixed on him. This was priceless. It was good enough – the dream tantrum. But the post-waking reaction? Golden. As I was stifling a laugh into a shiz eating grin, we caught eyes again. “Whatever,” he grumbled, flopping sideways onto his pillow.
“I’m still pissed.”
With entertainment like this, who needs lackluster Blockbuster? (Yes, it was that long ago, TYVM.)
These days, I don’t have to deal much with the sleep talkers. But the missing part of this story (and the source of my deviant side wanting payback by taunting with my sig other) is that… you guessed it: I do it too. While my dude may’ve thrown siesta fits, mine were more of the night terror variety. Nothing too grave. Just enough to annoy my mattress-mate as much as he did it to me. (Our sleep relache was an impeccable reflection of our waking one). And now, years after he’s gone and off probably causing a nocturnal nuisance to some other woman admiring his snoozing Greek physique to remind her why she remains with him, I’m left wondering one thing: are there any adverse side effects to these pillow soliloquies? Am I unknowingly doing myself harm via dreamtime dissertations or something?
So, naturally, I looked it up.
And found… very little.
Surprisingly, though there’ve been as many studies as there’ve been sheep I’ve counted trying to get back to sleep after being woken by vocalizations of my former darling, they don’t seem to have enough to indicate why sleep speaking transpires – or even in what stage. (IOW: it’s not always during dreams that it happens.) Some people have night terrors (which can accompany walking into the street or getting violent). Some bust from slumber into speeches and eat the contents of their refrigerator. Others, even, have risen with their eyes closed to explain to their testers how they’re about to go exercise – and then jog in place for forty minutes at a time. Right in the middle of the sleep lab.
You’d think that’d help us (and the poor latest ladylove of my ex – and my next ex-to-be) arrive at a solution of some sort.
(Aside from this.)
But the most I could glean from some of the more legit publications was essentially the same advice you hear about any other shuteye sufferings you might be enduring. Limit the late day caffeine. Give yourself seven hours of rest. Avoid stress (ORLY?). The one good piece of advice I did consider worthwhile, though, was this: keep a slumber log that lists when you do any activities that might affect your sleep (after breakfast latte, after dinner cardio, after dessert pipe full’a china white … all the usual suspects). And then, after you’ve kept a diary for a week or two, head into the sleep doctor to see if something needs tweaking to suppress your evening speaking. Or, if you’re insurance is as shizzy as mine, you can just try shuffling one habit at a time till “bae” quits complaining about you waking her/him up anymore. (Or you can just invite bae to depart the premises permanently. Like I did.) And, voila, when their carping ceases, you know which habit’s the culprit and maintain the change you’ve made.
In the end – night terrors aside – it would seem that chatty napping has but one proven adverse affect.
And that’s on whoever’s unfortunate enough to be bedmates with the babbler.
(However Hollywood level entertaining it may be.)