{{featured_button_text}}
Cozy Loft (copy)

“I’m a little bit country. She’s a little bit rock and roll,” by Marty Cooper, and sung by Donny and Marie Osmond.

Is it time to put another blanket on the bed? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. It all depends on whom you ask... and when you ask her.

I run a little cool while spouse runs a little warm. There was a time when this differential caused some heat around the ol’ thermostat, but that Cold War ended years ago. I lost.

The arrival of cooler nights has again revived our annual discussion.

Do you think it’s time to put another blanket on the bed?

Do you?

Do you?

I was a little chilly last night.

I was sweating.

Maybe if we close the window.

The room gets too stuffy.

Register for more free articles
Stay logged in to skip the surveys

Maybe this weekend?

And so on.

Eventually, we add a blanket.

Time passes. Fall turns to winter. Blankets accrue atop the bed with nary a discussion. Gradually, layer upon layer rises, like machine-woven sediment from the Sandman, until the task of making the bed takes me 30 minutes and all the while I’m muttering the admonition, “Lift with your legs.”

Over the decades, we have acquired a vast inventory of unmatched blankets. Our bed does not resemble those you see in Real Simple or Architecture Digest, with their matching shams, duvets and bedspreads. Oh, we have matching shams, duvet and bedspread, and 37 pillows, but the real truth lies hidden below the surface of chenille and cotton.

Our bed, before it is remade in the morning, resembles a heap of blankets for sale at a Mountain Man Rendezvous. Wearing my red-plaid jammies and my face unshaven and scowling with reluctance to leave the bed and re-enter reality, I sit amid our hodgepodge of bedding looking like I’m ready to trade blankets for beaver pelts or a Henry rifle.

“Hiya, hiya, hiya. We got yer doubles, yer queen-size, and yer kings, and even yer California Kings.”

Inevitably, alas and hey hey, I am driven from our “technicolor dreamcoat” bed and I embark again on my daily task, arraying the bedding into orderly layers below a patterned facade. This takes enough semi-circumambulations to bring a shaman to his knees. I tug this way, pull that way and stoop to tuck everything at the foot of the bed.

Finally, like a concrete man with a trowel, I used my hands to smooth the top cover. Like a stevedore, I stack the 37 pillows into a mortar-less wall of synthetic fiber and scented pillowcases.

Winded and approaching 5,000 steps on my fitness tracker, I survey my accomplishment and receive the seal of approval for my handiwork.

The cats curl up in their customary corners of the bed.

Be the first to know

* I understand and agree that registration on or use of this site constitutes agreement to its user agreement and privacy policy.
1
0
0
0
0

Load comments