When I’m alone, I can sleep crossways in bed without an argument.

In a characteristically witty, self-mocking line, Gabor frames solitude as a small but telling freedom: without a partner, even the trivial matter of how to occupy a bed becomes a site of autonomy rather than negotiation. The humor depends on domestic realism—couples routinely bargain over space—and on the exaggerated image of sleeping “crossways,” a playful emblem of taking up room. Beneath the joke is a commentary on marriage and companionship as compromises that can feel like arguments over minutiae. The quip also fits Gabor’s public persona: glamorous, outspoken, and candid about the frictions of romantic life.