The diamond industry has a new "happy anniversary" commercial on TV.
Shot in dreamy black and white, it shows a man tiptoeing through a house while his wife sleeps. She's a pretty brunette, maybe 40. She slumbers on her back, in a tank top that highlights her toned arms.
Her husband slips back into bed and drapes a stunning, five-stone diamond necklace around her neck. Presumably awakened by the sheer weight of this bauble, she blinks and sits up.
She grasps the necklace, looks down and sees she's hit the mother lode. Clutching oh, about 15 carats in her fist, she leans over her husband with a smile that says, "You lucky devil, you."
I do like this commercial, although it's about as relevant to my life as rubber training pants.
First of all, the wife's attire. Who sleeps that cute? Because my internal thermostat left the building back in '89, I usually crawl in bed wearing sweatpants, socks, t-shirt, pullover and sometimes even my puffy pink bathrobe, of which I am extremely fond.
Then I swaddle myself in the bedclothes and doze off, shivering. Apparently I start to crawl out of all these layers about 45 minutes later.
Being asleep, I don't know exactly how I do this, but my husband, Widdle Baby, says it's quite the sight.
"You watched me?" I asked, the first time he described my dazed, slo-mo nocturnal strip.
"Oh, yeah. Turned on both lamps. You took a while," he said. "Was I conscious?" "No, but your crazy sister was," he said, laughing. (Back story: Whenever I act in a way that no reasonable man can comprehend, Widdle Baby proclaims, "That's not you, that's your crazy sister coming out. Ha ha ha!"
Now, by the time I claw my way out of clothes plus bedding, I'm drenched in sweat. If Widdle put a necklace on my neck, it would melt.
Then-and there's no polite way to say this-there's the snoring. My nocturnal noises are about as romantic as a hippo in heat. Lord only knows at what point in life I began whistling, grunting and howling in my sleep, but I do. I discovered this because Widdle, the man I adore, VIDEOTAPED ME SNORING. He did it in the dark; I don't know why he didn't turn the light on, and I' m probably better off not knowing. But when he played the tape the next day, I about died. I sounded like a hyena with whooping cough.
Add in the fact that I invariably awaken with puffy eyes and mule breath, and you see why I'm not falling for this diamond commercial.
Also, I wear very little jewelry. In fact, since I stopped going to an office I haven't worn my fake Lady Rolex in months. I wear only wedding rings and a tiny gemstone cross--and our goats keep trying to nip the cross from around my neck.
Come to think of it, that's probably what I'll get for our next anniversary. Another goat.

Julie R. Smith, who doesn't walk in her sleep (yet), can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.