snoopy
Professional
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Silent Night
Which snoring remedies actually work?
Tennis ball, $2.50 for can of three
The MacGyver remedy. Or, as I like to call it, fetching with Pavlov's dog. Put a tennis ball in a sock, and then safety pin the sock to the middle of the back of a T-shirt. When you sleep in this T-shirt, it's painful to sleep on your back, so you turn on your side, where you're less likely to snore. If you sleep with the sock enough, your sleep self will supposedly associate sleeping on your back with pain, and you won't need the T-shirt anymore.
I'm not used to sleeping with a shirt on, so this—not to mention the heavy sock tugging at the back—took some getting used to. Also, it is surprisingly painful to have a Wilson jut into your back. But the remedy worked immediately. The morning after the first night, Elizabeth reported no snoring. I felt great, too. The second night, my deceitful sleep self did manage to outmaneuver the sock, swinging the tennis ball between my arm and side, allowing me to sleep on my back and snore. But the next day I adjusted the sock so that it was tighter against the shirt and could not be stretched out. For the rest of the trial, there was no snoring.
By the fifth night, I was attached to the ensemble. There was something ritualistic about putting the shirt on every night, and the thought of moving on to test another remedy made me sad. Elizabeth loved it, too. Improbably, she even found the get-up cute, which solidified this remedy's place as the clear winner.
Silent Night
Which snoring remedies actually work?
Tennis ball, $2.50 for can of three
The MacGyver remedy. Or, as I like to call it, fetching with Pavlov's dog. Put a tennis ball in a sock, and then safety pin the sock to the middle of the back of a T-shirt. When you sleep in this T-shirt, it's painful to sleep on your back, so you turn on your side, where you're less likely to snore. If you sleep with the sock enough, your sleep self will supposedly associate sleeping on your back with pain, and you won't need the T-shirt anymore.
I'm not used to sleeping with a shirt on, so this—not to mention the heavy sock tugging at the back—took some getting used to. Also, it is surprisingly painful to have a Wilson jut into your back. But the remedy worked immediately. The morning after the first night, Elizabeth reported no snoring. I felt great, too. The second night, my deceitful sleep self did manage to outmaneuver the sock, swinging the tennis ball between my arm and side, allowing me to sleep on my back and snore. But the next day I adjusted the sock so that it was tighter against the shirt and could not be stretched out. For the rest of the trial, there was no snoring.
By the fifth night, I was attached to the ensemble. There was something ritualistic about putting the shirt on every night, and the thought of moving on to test another remedy made me sad. Elizabeth loved it, too. Improbably, she even found the get-up cute, which solidified this remedy's place as the clear winner.
