House guests. You’ve (probably) had them. You’ve (probably) been one. Sometimes they’re delightful energetic boosts that inspire you to mix up your routine, buy you groceries, and make you keep your crib extra neat; sometimes they’re nightmare interlopers who stank up your bathroom, smoke up your trees, and prove they have no home training. Someone sharing your living space so intimately is no small deal, especially for those of us who insist on residing in New York, where guest bedrooms are rare. Anyone who opts to flop at Casa d’Ilka will either be co-bunking or riding my elder couch. Plus I’m specific about who’s allowed in my space on g.p. so, to repeat: a sizeable deal.
This year has been heavy with houseguestry (both being and hosting) and 99% of my guest-having has been 100% successful, (My guest-being bops, obviously. I’m well-bred and have a rep to protect.) which has led to a new realization/past remembrance of an exceptionally potent and alive thing I have about sleeping with friends. I don’t mean the “adult” definition of “sleeping with”, (which can be delightful but is not the point of this post) I’m referring to actual sleeping, together, and all its accompanying aspects: sheet negotiation, nocturnal conversations, mutual booty touching, etc. For me, bed-sharing is a character barometer that affects my platonic relationships as much as those marked by romance, and poor sleeping behavior makes me throw that SHARP side-eye. This is a well-earned trait – one day I’ll tell the story of The Worst Vacation of My Life, but names have to be changed for that and we don’t have time for aliases.
I enjoyed a bed buddy even as a wee boodle, which I imagine stems from being an only child and an unrepentant weirdo. I met my first partner-in-naptime in kindergarten; he was named Robert (not really) and we’d scoot our little cots thisclose so we could hold hands as we slept. We had perfectly complimentary palm climates (warm and sunny with 10% humidity). It was adorable. Then life got loud, Robert and I lost each other to different educational trajectories, and all my subsequent naps were solo until undergrad when I found a handful of like-minded loons and was able to finally re-surrender to group snoozin’.
It tracks that the people with whom I (still) share sleep time are the same people I infallibly enjoy during my waking life. They’re the folks I trust and love the most, the ones whose calls I almost never let go to voicemail, the ones for whom I’d drop almost anything if they were in need. Because we’re most ourselves when asleep. It’s virtually impossible to self-censor, and the slow road to morning breath is paved with farts and drool. Consider the level of vulnerability involved – someone could kill you and you wouldn’t even know it until you woke up dead. As a person who astral travels on the regular, I know that sleeping well together means we can do almost anything well together. If I can love you while you were sleeping, I can love you while you’re awake, at your best and your worst, to infinity and beyond.
And that’s about as close to family as I get.
