Invisible Friends

My husband, the dear Mr. Knitingale, is a brilliant man. He is a talented scientist, respected in his field, published multiple times. All in all, a smart guy. And yet, I've come to the conclusion that he has an invisible friend. Oh, I know--it sounds strange. It seems too incredible to believe. But let me offer you the evidence, and you can be the judge:
Mr. K and I have a queen sized bed (I was going to put a photo of it here but, frankly, I'm too embarrassed to have anyone see our private little slobfest; you'll have to imagine a queen sized bed, preferably without the assorted piles of detritus around the edges). Theoretically, it is large enough for two people. This is borne out by the fact that, when he is out of town, I am able to arise in the morning and make only my half of the bed--his is undisturbed. And yet, despite this apparent truth, I regularly awaken in the wee hours to the unlovely sensation of an elbow, wedged against my kidney. Or on my upper back, pinning me to the mattress. Or in my face. Or wherever, but definitively on MY side of the bed. What transpires next is always the same:

Me: (in a gentle whisper) "Honey? Honey? Wake up!"
Mr. K.: (incoherently) "snzxlgh"
Me: (still whispering, still hoping) "Sweetie? Honey, please?"
Mr. K.: (still incoherent, apparently deep in slumber): "xnsleph"
Me: (desperate now, still trapped beneath a pointy bit): "Honey! Wake up! You're on my side of the bed!"
Mr. K.: (with the sudden clarity and authority of a college valedictorian): "I cannot POSSIBLY be on your side of the bed. I'm right up against my edge!"

(I feel compelled to insert here that, while not a tiny man, Mr. K is nevertheless not huge. He is slightly taller than I am, and has the athletic build of the runner that he is. He is NOT, in any case, the 500 pound Sumo wrestler that he would need to be in order to be compressing me into mattess fluff while clinging helplessly to his side of the bed. I'm just saying.)

In more innocent times, I would test my own bed position, checking to be certain I had not strayed onto his side, unlikely though that seemed. I stopped this after doing so caused me to roll unceremoniously off the bed and onto the floor in an undignified heap one chilly winter morning. The only comfort I could take from that whole experience was that Mr. K laughed so hard he had trouble falling back asleep. Not that I'm bitter.
A few attempts to explain to Mr. K. that he most certainly IS on my side of the bed and, further, is crushing my kidney are met with further incoherent mumblings. I'm expected to believe that he has returned to whatever deep slumber will protect him from this onslaught. Irritated, I stalk to the bathroom. On the way back, my eyes now adjusted to the light, I see the proof: he is unquestionably in the MIDDLE of the bed, arms and legs akimbo. There is not room for one of the 7 dwarves to stretch out, let alone all of my 68 frustrated inches. I am filled with righteous indignation.

Me: "AHA!! You are in the middle of the bed! I TOLD you you were on my side!"
Mr. K: "........well.......you got up."
Me: "?!"
Me: "But I--but you--but--!"
Mr. K: "snzhlxt"
Me: "....snorting bed pig..." (okay, unkind, I admit. But, c'mon. It's 3:00 a.m. Even if I'm to believe that he only moved when I got up, where did he think I was going? Idaho?)

But this is not the worst of it. No. A few hours later Mr. K. can be relied upon to find me where I have been since being brutally squished awake, crouched over a wad of way too tight knitting, cranky and pale. He is bright, happy, rested. And he says: "Hi, Sweetie! Oh, you look tired. Didn't you sleep well?"
I think it is not wise to tease and torment the animals in the early hours. Particularly the sleep-deprived ones clutching pointy sticks.
Clearly, he does not believe himself to blame. This being the case, there is only one answer: an invisible friend. And not just any invisible friend, but a pushy, snorting, bedpig of a friend who sleeps between us and unceremoniously shoves both of us towards the edges of the bed without so much as a twinge of conscience. He's probably the one who snores and steals the covers, too.

On woolier topics, have you ever gone into a yarn store with the innocent purpose of purchasing some simple thing--say, a shawl pattern, or a stitch book--and, upon discovering that they did not have exactly what you wanted, realized that you were constitutionally unable to leave any purveyance of yarn without buying SOMETHING? Preferably something soft and knittable?

No.....me neither. That would suggest that I am knitting obsessed, wool obsessed, out of control of my assortment of sheep-type goodness. This then:


is NOT the lovely, dreamy, foaming sea-looking yarn, that I most certainly did NOT purchase yesterday, and I absolutely did NOT plan on possibly making Icarus with it, should the teal alpaca bells ever cooperate in their transformation from block of noodles to shawl. Because I have a ton of yarn. And I have lots of projects. And naturally I do not need and so would not purchase more yarn.

This obviously could not have been me.

But it does suggest a possibility--a wonderful possibility. Perhaps, just perhaps, I too have an invisible friend. Well, think about it. It would account for a number of things....including this:

Yes, that must be it. Now, if I can only get my invisible friend to kick Mr. K's invisible friend's invisible tushy out of my side of the bed.