I am not a pretty sleeper. I know this. In fact, one Halloween, when I'd passed out on the couch, my then-boyfriend decided it would be funny to take a series of pictures of me asleep, dressed up like a mouse, with my little mouse nose in its final stages of being smudged off, looking like one of Jerry's Kids. It was funny. Then.
Those things are funny when you're in love. And when the person laughing at you has already decided that s/he wants to be with you even if you're a retarded, drooling sleeper with frequent gas and a tendency to cry at episodes of Grey's Anatomy.
That is comfort, I guess. And after my break-up, I wanted comfort more than anything. I was so used to sleeping next to someone big and warm, that whether it was my best girlfriend (who was not big) or a rebound (who was not big, either), I just needed to fall asleep next to a warm body. I asked my friend Liz to stay the night probably far too often--so often that the one time (that I know of) that a giant cockroach made a pilgrimage across my bed, Liz's face was there to serve as a buffer between la cuca rocha and me. She was there. And I was grateful. Not only was I grateful that the cockroach had crawled on her face and not mine, but I was grateful that she was there in spite of whatever noises or fluids may have been coming out of my body at the time. I slept better with someone else in my bed. Period.
Fast forward a few months and I'm back to my old, pre-relationship ways. I love my bed. And I love that if the corner of the sheet is coming off of the mattress, that I did it, and I'm responsible for putting it back. I want to drool and snore alone, and, for the most part, I want my bed to myself. Sharing a bed makes me conscious of the fact that I'm an ugly sleeper, and who wants their last thought of the day to be "I'm falling into ugly?"
Maybe this is what getting over something is--getting re-acquainted and comfortable with old habits... while getting comfortable with new ones, like cooking dinner for oneself and Running for Fat People.