As some of you may know, I’m in the process of moving. Which means I’ve had to buy and re-buy serious amounts of bubble wrap and tape. On one of those trips to the supply store, I noticed that they sold a mattress cover.
“A mattress cover,” I thought to myself. “Like an envelope for my mattress?”
I studied the back of the package and flipped it over again. And flipped it back over again. Which led me into deep thought.
In the year of our Lord, two thousand and one — or how my mom would say it “Tu Tausand an gwon” — I purchased a mattress.
Armed with a brand new, navy blue Sears card I drove myself to the nearest monster chain of the same name and tested every single mattress in the store. I may have also tested out the pool table, the elliptical and two or three power drills too. I’m not sure. I can’t remember all the details.
Back to bedding.
A very nice man, whose name I don’t remember, pleaded that I test out every single mattress. He begged me to really get a feel for the different levels of firmness. He explained the benefits of pillow tops and stable box spring bottoms. All while I was jumping from mattress to mattress, sometimes plopping down on them, other times, sitting slowly on the edge. He was a great salesman, eager to please kind of guy, you know?
This was a big deal for me. Choosing my very own mattress. Well. Our very own mattress.
I was starting a new relationship. And we were going to — gulp — move in together. The least I could do is contribute a mattress to lay our heads on each night. After all, I did have a credit card with a seemingly unlimited spending cap.
After about an hour of jumping, laying and sitting — oh, not to mention asking the salesman to toss and turn while I laid next to him — I made a decision while outside having a cigarette. I was going to go for it. I was going to buy the Cadillac of mattresses.
The salesman was pleased. Ecstatic, actually.
He charged the bed on my brand new card, as well as the delivery charge, some crazy insurance fee, the new linens I picked out and a power drill.
A few days later our mattress arrived with two burly men who assembled it for me. I offered to help with my power drill, but they told me to step aside, and I did.
When it was all over, the mattress stood bare, beautiful like a lion sitting proudly, with an inflated chest. It roared at me and I roared back. It was hot.
Almost a decade has passed since that day. My mattress obviously doesn’t look that way anymore. It certainly doesn’t roar at me when I flip it over or change the sheets. It is more of an older woman. A woman with the beginning stages of osteoporosis. A woman who has seen the world. The really ugly parts of the world. A woman who yells, “Be careful!” when you are backing up out of the driveway.
And I sleep on her every night.
She contains all of my deepest secrets, my moments of despair and ecstasy.
My mattress knows everything. Which is why I purchased the cover. To keep that crazy bitch quiet.