Perchance to Dream

The mattress arrived late yesterday afternoon, and with freshly laundered sheets (600 threadcount of twisted cotton dyed a mellow ivory color and more wrinkled than a raisin) I now have a bed. With few exceptions, my new bed likely kicks your bed's ass.

As anyone who has ever shared sleeping space with me will attest, I am a bastard when it comes to sharing sheets. I just can't do it. I was hoping that stretching my lonesome self out on a queen-size bed would alleviate this problem, but I awoke this morning to find that I had, as always, curled the top sheet into something resembling a pretzel, or perhaps a crude garrote made inside a prison.

No wonder I sleep alone. It's just better for everybody.

Still, I found the mattress quite comfortable once the muscles along my spinal column began to relax themselves. My bed came one day too late: I woke up on Saturday morning with a terrible crick in my neck, caused no doubt by craning my head to a sharp angle on my loveseat for most of the night.

Today is Mother's Day, so I have to be sure to call my mom and tell her I love her. A younger me would dread telling my mom I bought a bed because the resulting conversation would take thirty minutes and consist primarily of laundry instructions or assertions that she or other relatives have ample bedding they could donate.

Living so far away has its advantages. There is a reason I bought a new bed. There is a reason why crashing on hand-me-down furniture was no longer at the top of my todo list. Implicitly, I feel she understands this now, and I'm not just her little boy in her eyes anymore. Mom almost — almost — sees me as an adult. That's quite an accomplishment.