My Dear, Dear Friends,
After several minutes of contemplation, I have decided to come out of the closet and confess to something so horrific, so deeply humiliating, something no woman (to my knowledge) has confessed to in public:
It’s not one of those exhausted-little-boy-after-a-day-at-Disneyland snores, the one that makes parents go “awww” as they shut the door to his room. It’s not even one of those I’m-stupid-but-cute Jessica Simpson-type lowing. I have the Snore of the Damned. A fish-wife‘s snore (are there still such things as fish-wives?). A snore that makes dogs wail and men weep (okay; just my husband, but he’s pretty darned annoyed).
Why is it so humiliating, especially in these days of Oprah and Dr. Phil? After all, in this stage of our civilization, many a girl will happily confess to swinging from mirrored disco balls covered in nothing but low-fat Cool-Whip (she may be slutty, but she’s not stupid). Others will readily (sometimes too readily) describe their phobias and addictions to the extent that they’re now attending a twelve-step group for their twelve-step addiction. But no woman wants to be thought of with her head slung back, her mouth open wide enough for the Chunnel train to drive through, processing enough air through her lungs that she’s decompressing the atmosphere of her bedroom every five seconds. Add the visual cherry-topper of dried saliva in the corners of the mouth and women who gleefully flaunt wearing fake nipples run screaming back into the snoring closet.
So why come out now? Because I believe in breaking the last taboo of femininity. I believe women should be honest in all aspects of the existence, even if it isn’t pretty. I also believe in pre-emptive strikes: if you wind up rooming with me during a library conference, you can’t say you weren’t warned.