Living on the Edge

Living on the edge takes on a whole new meaning now that I'm in my late 30's, with a husband, kid, and pets.

When I was young, living on the edge meant coming in after curfew, talking back to my parents, and hanging out with the "bad" kids. As a college student, eating food past the expiration date, mixing colors and whites to save laundry money, and walking home from bars in sketchy neighborhoods was my idea of excitement.

Now that I'm married with a kid, a dog, and two cats, I don't have the time or energy to defy my parents or travel to rough neighborhoods. So living dangerously is reduced to what happens late at night in my bed.

No, it's not kinky or scary... it's just sad.

Every night, I wake up at 2:00 a.m. to find myself clutching the side of the bed, scared to move in case I fall over the edge. I'm freezing, but am only able to clutch a small square of blanket over my shoulders.

Meanwhile, my husband is sprawled in the middle of the bed, snoring. My son, who has had a nightmare, has snuck in between us for the sole purpose of digging his knees into my back. And my cat has decided that, since there's no other place, my head is as good a pillow as anything else. The other cat and dog are taking up space at my feet, forcing me to assume the fetal position.

I then have a choice - accept my situation and lie in agony, cursing my shortsightedness in only getting a queen-sized bed. Or I can rebel. get up, turn on the light, push everyone over, rearrange the covers, get back into bed, and wait for the inevitable tide of bodies to push me to the edge once again.

Will I be a rebel tonight? That's the fun of living on the edge -- you never know.

About me...

My first blog entry! Now I have to come up with something wittty and insightful to say.

Oh, well. I guess with a husband, 2 kids, a dog, a cat and a lizard, something is bound to happen to me, right?