My partner sleeps like a turtle. During the day he is a man, and sensible and friendly, but at night he withdraws into a shell. He burrows into the bed, pulls the covers around his head, and disappears into a blanket.
He has done this for the entire course of our five-year relationship. I had assumed that this was just the way he’s most comfortable. Now, however, I have a different theory: I think I am the reason he is a turtle.
I am in my 50s and, while no longer in the bloom of youth, I think I’m doing okay for a woman of my age. I may not have the taut skin of Nicole Kidman, or the snatched waist of Jennifer Lopez, or the lustrous hair of Demi Moore, but I have wisdom, a sparkling personality, and a nice smile. Unfortunately, as I have recently discovered, none of these qualities are evident when I’m sleeping.
Recently, I saw a photo of myself taken when I was asleep. And while I hadn’t expected to look like Snow White in slumber, I certainly did not expect to look so much like her long-dead mother. It was truly disturbing. My skin looked grey, my face was slack, and my mouth hung open in a way more typically seen on people laid out on a slab in a morgue.
What hideous alchemy is this? During the day I look alive, if a little bit creased. At night, in my bed, I morph into a corpse.
I’m not just unattractive. I sound disgusting too. Still, I reassured myself, this is part of nature’s plan. The way we sleep serves an important social function.
KERRI SACKVILLE
Is this normal? I’ve seen plenty of movies featuring sleeping older women, and they look perfectly lovely. Their faces are pink, they are breathing softly, and their hair fans out attractively on the pillow. Well, it seems the movies are lying. When I’m asleep, the only scene I could star in would be set in a hospital ward, with relatives gathered around me weeping.
“Good lord,” I exclaimed to my partner, upon seeing the photo. “Is this what I actually look like?”
“Oh, yes,” he said cheerily. “And the only reason I know you’re not dead is that you make weird choking noises in your throat!”
Marvellous, I thought. I’m not just unattractive. I sound disgusting too. Still, I reassured myself, this is part of nature’s plan. The way we sleep serves an important social function.
Just think about the evolution of sleeping styles as we age. Babies look angelic when they’re unconscious, with their porcelain cheeks and tiny fists poking out of their wraps. This ensures that their parents will remember how cute they are, even after a day of crying and vomiting and nappies.
As toddlers, they are chaotic when they’re awake, and even more chaotic when they’re asleep. Their hair is plastered against their sweaty foreheads, their bedding is dishevelled, and their limbs are akimbo – more like drunk old men than small children. This signals to their parents to get tough and seize control before they become teenagers, and time has run out.
In their tweens, kids revert to sleeping angels. Having spent their days dreaming of unicorns or playing for the Wallabies, they spend their nights surrounded by stuffed toys, wrapped up like a burrito. This reminds their exhausted parents that they’re still their babies, and stokes their resilience for what will come next.
Because next come the eye-rolling teenage years, when kids are utterly gross while unconscious. Between the acne patches, the strange odours, and the beds piled high with detritus, parents begin to feel ready to detach.
By the time kids reach young adulthood, nature knows they may wish to attract a mate. As they sleep – perhaps next to a potential suitor – their faces remain intact and fresh. In my 30s and 40s, I could wake up in the morning and my features were right where I’d left them the previous night.
Not any more. Now I wake up and somehow my mouth has been pushed to the side, my cheeks are creased, and my eyelids are hanging over my eyeballs. Worse, I need earplugs to block out the noise, an eye mask to block out light, a heat pad for my back, a nose plug to stop me from snoring and, on occasion, a mouthguard to keep me from grinding.
Having seen that photo of my sleeping self, I realise that my partner is not cosplaying as a reptile. He is not burrowing into a shell for reasons of comfort or habit; he is blocking out the disturbing sight of his partner.
Still, I am grateful. As always, nature is healing. Not only does my partner get to see me at my worst and love me anyway (albeit from under the blankets), he is preparing for the inevitable. Though I am vibrant and dynamic and alive during the day, my sleeping visage reminds him that I am mortal. Every morning he wakes up next to someone who looks like she’s waiting for the coroner.
And me? I wake up next to a turtle.
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Kerri Sackville is an author, columnist and mother of three. Her new book is The Secret Life of You: How a bit of alone time can change your life, relationships and maybe the world.Connect via X or Facebook.
