Sleeping Under the Stars: Expectation vs. Reality
The other night, Mason and I were out on our patio laying on our backs looking at the stars, and it was perfect. Like, seriously perfect. Pretty much one of those moments that makes you glad you’re alive. Handsome guy, clear skies, happy feelings.
“Hey,” I say, inspiration striking, “you know what we should do? We should drag that extra twin mattress we have and sleep out here.” Because there’s nothing like taking a perfect moment a little bit too far, amiright?
“Um, yeah, I’m not doing that,” Mason said. I was disappointed, my romantic dreams of cuddling under the stars dashed, but ultimately figured it was ok because honestly, two full-grown adults can’t really fit on a twin mattress anyway. So I made up a little bed out on the patio, put on my hedgehog pjs, and climbed on in.
Editor’s note: Before I get too far into this story, let me preface it with two points: 1) I like to think I’m generally a reasonably intelligent person, but occasionally I have way more enthusiasm than brains, and 2) Mason should probably be considered for sainthood or something. I mean, really.
Mason took one look at me in my little outdoor nest, started laughing his ass off, and insisted on documenting the event for posterity:
Please believe me when I say that, even as I was doing this, I was aware it wasn’t quite normal. I swore Mason to secrecy because I didn’t really want anyone thinking I was completely insane. He agreed, said he thought I’d be coming back to bed in the middle of the night anyway, and went indoors to sleep like a normal person.
Not me, though. I slept out there all night–I had to, now that Mason basically said he didn’t think I could. And I will say I enjoyed it–I lay there feeling very outdoorsy until I fell asleep, woke up once at 2:30 to admire how much the stars had changed, then went back to sleep until 5am when my alarm went off.
The sheets were damp from humidity, but I didn’t mind since I was just going to get up and hit the gym anyway. There was a bit of a crisis when the largest moth in North America somehow got into the house while I was dragging my mattress back in, but I caught it in a glass bowl and let it back out, then headed to the gym feeling like I had had a formational experience.
Until I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the locker room, that is. I stared in horror and slowly realized I had made a terrible mistake, and the price I had unwittingly paid for said mistake was around 80 mosquito bites on anything that had been open to the night air–hands, arms, face.
My friends at work laughed their asses off when they saw, asking what the hell I had been thinking to sleep outside in Houston, but Mason–God bless him–never once said “I told you so.”