Hey, you don’t have to hit me over the head with it.
It’s been going on for a couple weeks now: my back, arms, and legs are stiff when I awake, and the other night I dreamt I was going over Niagara in a wooden barrel.
All of this has led me to an expensive conclusion.
My mattress has expired.
It’s odd; but one minute something is perfectly comfortable, and the next minutes it’s a large, lumpy noun without your best interest at heart.
And then, it must be replaced.
I’ve been resisting mattress shopping, though. I’ve only done it once before, roughly 15 years ago, and didn’t care for it. All mattresses prior to that came free with helping someone move, free with a relationship, that sort of thing. I don’t like buying things like mattresses. It’s an expensive, bulky, and likely-to-happen-again-in,-roughly,-15-years kind of shopping.
Not a fun kind of shopping.
But I have to, don’t I? I have to do that kind of shopping. The days of cast-offs and he-left-his-mattress mattresses are over.
Sometimes, you just have to buy a new mattress.
Look at me. All mature over here.
Still, without prompting I’m willing to bet I won’t be going any time soon. The only time I think about it is just moments before I’m ready to go to bed, and by then, of course, it’s too late to go shopping.
You won’t catch me at an all-night mattress sale.
So I’m going to need some prompting. I’ve left a note for myself, and I put it where I tend to spend a lot of my time: on the refrigerator.
“Your mattress has expired,” it says.
Let’s see if that’s a big enough hit in the head.
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