My Bed.

…My bed is soft with more pillows than two people need. A few of the pillows are made of down, so sometimes there are stray feathers that get stuck in the blankets, on clothes, in my eyelids. Sometimes I mistake the feathers for bugs and freak out. When that happens, I can’t sleep for hours. I lie there listening to Frasier because I’m one of those infuriating people who can’t sleep without the TV on. I like the jazzy theme song that bookends each episode: “… Tossed salad and scrambled eggs…” When I press my face into my pillow, it smells like stale laundry – I rarely wash the comforter, and the sheets get washed just once a month when the cleaning lady comes. I’m not in the same tax bracket with the kind of people who have cleaning ladies, but I hate to clean so much that I don’t let that stop me. As I lie there face-down, I hear snoring, the soft, consistent kind that lets me know someone is there; sometimes it turns into the loud, disruptive kind that makes me wish they weren’t. In the mornings, I feel as though I could lie in bed forever while at night, I have to beat seven pillows into submission and face due north before my body will be tricked into sleep. I used to eat in bed. I can’t say I miss the crumbs, but I do miss that complete sense of rock bottom that accompanies such a habit…

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