Last night at 2:14 a.m., my blanket completely vanished. I looked over, and there was my husband—wrapped up like a smug, sleeping human burrito, holding the entire comforter hostage.
I tugged gently. Nothing. I tugged harder. He just grunted and rolled himself even tighter into his cozy cocoon.
So, I did what any loving wife would do. I gripped my corner of the sheet and gave it one sharp, violent yank—like a magician pulling a tablecloth out from under fine china. He spun awake mid-rotation, utterly disoriented, mumbling incoherently about “blanket burglars.”
This morning, he’s acting completely betrayed. He looked me in the eye and complained, “You straight-up attacked me in my sleep like a textile ninja.”
Listen, sir, you left me with absolutely no choice. I had goosebumps on my goosebumps.
Lesson learned: Marriage isn’t about sharing. It’s about surviving strategic, high-stakes nighttime fabric negotiations.
