The Bed

Ragnarok was last week, and so Dorian and I spent the week camping. Dorian, having served in the military, has a much greater commitment to Spartan living and minimalist camping than I do. Furthermore, the week leading up to Rag (and throughout most of Rag itself), I was very, very sick, and wasn't able to contribute much to the packing venture.

So let me tell you about our bed.

Our bed at Rag this year was a thick 5x6 floor rug, upon which was laid two layers of polar fleece. I had a pillow, because I insisted upon it, but Dorian used folded up clothes. This was a very economical use of packing space, but also incredibly, incredibly uncomfortable. And also far too small for two people who are not what you might call "lithe."

As I was ill, I frequently had to sit up in the middle of the night to accommodate a coughing fit. Each and every time I did, Dorian would sense there was suddenly more room in the bed, and roll over to take advantage of it. One can hardly blame him for wanting to be comfortable, but that's how this conversation ended up taking place:

"Dorian, you took my part of the bed again."
He continued to sleep. "Uhhng...no, I didn't."
"Yes, you did, love. Could you please move?"
"I didn't! See, I'm on the edge," he said, still not rousing.
At this point, Dorian reached to the right and tapped his hand against the edge of the rug...then did the same with his other hand, on the left hand side.
"You're on both edges, sweetie. I need some space."
"Uuuhhhhhhnnnnhhh...."

This continued like this for a while, until I just grabbed my pillow and laid down on top of my cloak, which had until this point been pulling double duty as my blanket. After a while, I was able to fall asleep again.

Until Dorian elbowed me in the eye.

"Ow! Dorian! That was my eyeball!"
"I need the pillow!" He shouted, wedging his arm in under my head as I sat up. "My arm will break!"
"...What."
"My arm's breaking," he insisted in his sleep, stretching his arm out over my pillow, his face buried in his cloak, which served as his pillow that evening. Sighing in irritation, I attempted to move his arm. "No! Don't! You'll break it!"
"For fuck's...Could you please move your arm."
"Can't, it'll break if I don't elevate it."

I waited a moment, then tried to lie down with my head on top of his arm--one of our cuddling positions, something I was reasonably certain he wouldn't object to.

"Noooo! Your hair will break my arm!"

And that's when I shook him awake.

We have agreed that a more serviceable bed is required for next year.



The rest are just random quotes from the week:

"It had eight months of banana, but the caltrops were too much for the raquetball administration."

"William's got to get the fire going, if he doesn't, the spoons will go hungry...he's got this...he's got this."

"Hmm. I love you."
"I love you, too."
"What time is pants?"
"...One o'clock."
"Hm...I have to...zzz..."

"There is just too much bacon...going to have to make bacon lamps."

(Long, angry groan) "I'm hot to trot."

"One brain bubble. Gotta fix. TV fix. Brain fix."