An Alarming Faceoff in the Bedroom

October, by The Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

When you think about all the ways that two different people — say, a Norwegian Artist and a Polish Writer — do things, it’s amazing that relationships last at all.

Take alarm clocks, for instance.

For years, the whinnying diminutive exploding box resided on the Norwegian Artist’s side, and, because he didn’t like red numbers shouting at him all night, he turned the face of the clock away so that he — with his 20/20 vision — and I especially — with my Makes-A-Bat-Seem-Like-An-Eagle eyesight, could not tell what time it was.

Deep beyond the gloaming hour, the Norwegian Artist’s grunt was anything but sensual when I pulled myself up over his shoulders to reach for the box, bring it to my face, and set it back down. Admittedly, I wasn’t feeling so vixenish myself as I did this, night after night after night.

So after several years, it occurred to me to broach the subject of moving the clock to my side of the bed. The Norwegian Artist, can, after all, read 0ne-inch numbers from six feet away.

Consultation, discussion, consideration, analysis, mutual agreement: the clock was moved to my side. A relationship counselor would have been proud, and out of a fee.

Several years after that, tired of straining at itty bitty one-inch numerals one foot from my lustrous blues, I brought up the concept of 4-inch figures.

(By the way, this appalling lack of vision isn’t age-related; it’s a genetic gift from my father.)

“I could read these with a minimum of squinting,” I said.

Becalmed, by The Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

“But the light — that irritating luminescent scarlet aurora visually resonating off of the ceiling!”

He didn’t put it precisely like that, but the meaning was there.

More consultation, discussion, consideration, analysis — a bit more lively this time — and then the issue was resolved when College Girl, in her impulsive way, gave me a digital clock with giant letters for Mother’s Day.

Backed in a corner, the Norwegian Artist was.

Ah, but Norwegian Artists are a determined race, and the offending item was banished to the far Netherlands of my nightstand, and that only with my avowed promise to use my body as a shield against the Aurora Borealis in numerical form.

A tenuous truce prevailed.

And then I started waking up at night — why, it’s really no one’s business, but it had to do with being hot in a non-Marilyn Monroe sort of way — and I found that the red light — unfocused though it may be — bothered me, and kept me from getting what little sleep I was rapidly accustoming myself to getting in this new, hopefully short, phase of my life.

“Studies show that the glowing red and green LED lights of today’s alarm clocks keep people — especially women going through a frustrating, hopefully short, phase of their life — from getting the sleep that they need,” a friend of mine told me.

Little Barn, by The Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

And you can believe her — I mean, she’s a nurse, and a friend of a doctor read about this in a magazine at the gynecologist’s office. This stuff is real science.

I passed on the information to the Norwegian Artist, who mentioned mildly that for years he had been bothered by the nightlong sunset on the ceiling, and together we came up with the solution:

Every night, before I head off to sleep, I set the clock face down onto the surface of the nightstand, and there is no longer any glow, — red, green, blue, healthy, or otherwise — assaulting the sight and senses of the Norwegian or the Pole.

The room is dark. Oscuro. Obfuscated. Totally without light.

And when I wake up — because I do, still — I don’t stare at the numbers advancing one by one in the minute section.

I also, unfortunately, don’t know what time it is, at all.

Neither does the Norwegian Artist, but at this point, we’re both so exhausted from the battle that we’re giving the matter of the clock — and the size of its numbers, and which way it faces, and even what room it, or either one of us, should be in — a much needed rest, so that somehow, between the two of us, we can get one.

Now, there’s just the issue of the fan, which one of us runs because he likes the white noise, and one of us wishes would just permanently QUIT.

Valley Stream, by the Norwegian Artist, Steve Henderson

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About This Woman Writes

Carolyn Henderson is the marketing manager of Steve Henderson Fine Art. In addition to her This Woman Writes blog, Carolyn writes a regular art column for FineArtNews, an online newsletter for artists and art collectors.
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4 Responses to An Alarming Faceoff in the Bedroom

  1. I found your blog through Fine Art Views Newsletter. I want to thank you for your most recent post. I was chuckling and then laughing out loud and immediately sent it to my husband. You just wrote about us. Husband can’t stand any light during sleep and loves the white noise. I want to know what time it is and have quiet. Best regards to you. Lynn

    • Thank you, Lynn. I would be intrigued to know your husband’s response!

      If you’ve found me and want to keep me, please consider signing up to be on the e-mail notification list — it’s free, and I’ll show up on your box once a week. I have a similar site at http://www.middleagedplague.areavoices.com where I eventually want to consolidate — there, when you sign up for e-mail notifications, you need to make sure to activate the process through an e-mail you’ll be sent.

      Glad you discovered me! Please pass me on!

  2. m says:

    Aha! Now I know why I can relate to you…you’re Polish! (I’m half, but we both know Polish over rules!). And about that bad eyesight…I can relate…I could only see things 5″ in front of my nose, then in 1997, I had laser eye surgery…my vision now, nearly 15 years later is still 20/20 or better and I very rarely use reading glasses even at age 55 …it’s really a miracle surgery…you go in nearly blind and come out seeing…no pain, no stitches!

  3. I, too, am a half-breed Pole. My father contributed — along with the eyesight — some German, British, Irish, and, somewhere deep in the realms of historical note, Scottish royalty. However, this mish mash of myopic mayhem doesn’t get in the way of my inner Pole.

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