I Want A MANbien Prescription, And I Want It Now

by Liz Henry
Originally Published: 
fall asleep
Olichel / Pixabay

I’m in the middle of a sentence about what I don’t remember when I hear it, a snore.

C’mon, I think, this is bad sitcom writing, it’s too easy of a laugh. We aren’t that couple, we aren’t a stereotype — the guy falling asleep while his special lady yammers on about insignificant things she believes are earth-shatteringly important until she’s brought down a peg, by yep, the snore of a grizzly bear.

Goddammit. We are that couple. And he is that guy who falls asleep faster than you can spell f-u-c-k-t-h-i-s while I lie there with eyeballs like saucers in an anxiety-induced, insomnia stupor cursing the darkness and, great, now the cat has taken to my abdomen like it’s her bed.

I’d like a MANbien prescription, and I would like it now.

MANbien, not to be confused with the prescription sleep aid, Ambien, puts into pill form all the carefree, hormonal-whatevers men have in order to fall asleep anywhere, everywhere, and upon entry into a couple’s bed. In fact, MANbien is so potent, one doesn’t even have to hit a bed or a pillow, users will fall asleep at a 45-degree angle before crashing. It’s that effective.

Imagine all the things women wouldn’t have to do if they were hopped up on MANbien instead of being woke AF.

No more googling the rumbling pain in your body, where no matter your search terms, it’s terminal and you’re going to die before sunrise.

No more mental to-do lists of all the shit you need to accomplish but will forget about as soon as your phone alarm kicks in and you’ve scrolled through Facebook.

Awake children.

Doing all the things for you in the cloak of night because everyone else comes first during sunup to sundown.

Replacing the toilet paper roll and gathering all the empty bottles of stuff from the shower to trash like you’re interning as a hotel maid for shits and giggles.

Deciding what you’re going eat for dinner number two.

Bypassing the feeling of homicidal rage after finding one dirty glass in the sink mere inches away from the dishwasher.

Trying to match socks, like impossible tasks are a thing you love more than dreaming of someone handing you six million dollars just because you’re awesome.

No more night terrors where you walk into the bathroom and find hairs that aren’t supposed to be there and say to yourself, I did not sign up for this middle-aged shit, nipples, show some respect.

I’m already asleep, sir, so a peek and a squeeze are out. No towel olympics tonight. Amen.

After I take my MANbien, I want to manspread in the bed like I’m doing sleep angels and everyone needs to be OK with it. The cat can fuck off — it’s my body, not your bed — and the man unit can half cheek-it on his left side like I’ve been doing for years. Sure, it’s a little vindictive, but a woman’s gotta snooze all night so she can slay all day, right?


This article was originally published on