It’s late. So late that it’s already dark out. I’m sleepy from sitting in front of the TV for six solid hours under a blankie and shoveling down an entire container of ice cream. Like a zombie I stumble to my feet and stagger towards the bedroom.
“Need… sleep… now…”
No one ever claimed that eloquence is my strong suit.
Finally I reach the doorway and lean against it for support. Must rest. Almost there. Stay on target. Stay on target.
Then I glance at the bed. The covers are completely gone. Nothing but a naked mattress and box springs await. And that’s not exactly the type of naked I had in mind.
Shut up, kid. It’s not like Obi Wan just got bisected with a lightsaber.
“They got washed. The rebel dryer containing clean bedding will be in range in 15 minutes.”
“But I wanted to sleep now!!!”
Why do sheets have to be clean? For that matter, why do we have to sheets at all?
After dating a few hours, my wife became pushy and forced me into my bedroom. That’s when she got her first glimpse at the inner sanctum of the Abyss. There was a mattress and a comforter. No sheets.
“Geez,” she said. “What are you? An animal?”
Luckily, though, like a real trooper, she still stuck around for a second date and a whole lot more.
Am I proud there were no sheets? No, but what can I say? Sheets were too damn much work. Keeping them on the bed would have required actual effort.
But that was a long time ago. These days sheets and covers are the most highly regulated aspect of my existence. And backed by the terrible power of the highest authority in my life. And no, I’m not talking about not the government.
There will be no sleep unless several conditions are met. There must be sheets. They must be clean. They must be arranged just so. Positioning must meet specific criteria. And there must be pre-approved covers as the final layer.
Come bedtime, if the sheets are messed up, I just shrug and slither in. I don’t care how they are. But if they don’t check out, the sheets get ripped away and my ass gets dumped on the floor. And then we reassemble them together. When done I usually say something mature like, “There! Can we go to bed now?”
And may God have mercy on your soul if you don’t get in properly. You have to be on top of the bedsheet and under the other sheet. My wife does not tolerate what I’ve come to think of as the “sheet thermocline.” Even so, come morning, she’ll be under the sheet and I’ll be on top of it. Welcome to the guru’s world of magic!
I do like the covers. I pull them up nice and high, curl my hands like little cat paws and hold them tight up under my chin. But they don’t stay there long.
A sleeping body apparently hates covers. As you sleep, somehow, the covers inch lower and lower. How? I don’t know. I’m asleep so I’m not exactly around to watch it. All I know is that by 1am the covers are down to my waist. I reach down and try to pull them up but they are apparently held tight in Darth Vader’s tractor beam. Those covers aren’t going anywhere. Groggily I become aware it would take effort to accomplish anything so I let go and drift back to sleep.
By 4am when I wake up again, the covers are only over my big toe. I whine and tug at them angrily but they won’t budge. My leading theory is that there’s a grue under the bed stealing them for himself and he’ll never give them up. Thinking about grues I give up and drift back to sleep.
Come morning and the light of the day, the grue is long gone (they hate light) and the covers lay discarded by the foot of the bed. Thus, my theory is proven to be true. It’s obviously a grue.
I’d worry about it but I’m too tired. That would take too much effort.