If shopping were an Olympic sport, my fiance Theresa would be pictured on a Wheaties box holding about seven gold medals and her Visa card. It's not so much that she spends an inordinate amount of money, she's actually pretty good at finding bargains and doesn't usually go overboard. What I have a slight issue with, though, is her ability to find (and purchase) items that have no purpose anywhere in the world, much less in our home. We have a ceramic rooster, for example, and about seventeen small vases that each contain a bouquet of sticks (she told me what those are actually called, but I don't remember and I don't really care anyway). And don't even get me started on the Halloween decorations. If it's got a pumpkin or a skull on it, she'll buy it. Even if it's a total piece of crap like this:
Now, in the spirit of fairness, Theresa could very easily accuse me of the same thing. I have an office in our home that is pretty much stuffed to the ceiling with autographed baseballs, signed bats, framed jerseys, photographs, all sorts of sports artifacts. I'm sure Theresa would be quick to say that my collection of memorabilia is a useless waste of space.
She'd be wrong, of course, but I'm willing to acknowledge a different point of view.
But despite her tendency to embrace the worthless, every once in a while Theresa will bring home (or the UPS guy will drop off on the porch) something that makes all the ceramic roosters and votive candles worthwhile.
Which brings us to the Memory Foam Mattress.
A couple weeks ago, Theresa called me at work with this earth-shattering news:
"Hey! The UPS guy just dropped off our new mattress!" she said.
"We're getting a new mattress? Was something wrong with the old one?"
"You don't understand. This is a Memory Foam Mattress!"
"Oh, you'll see when you get home."
"It smells like paint," I said.
"Yeah, the website said that'll go away."
We remade the bed. It looked about the same as it had with the old mattress except, you know, it was four inches thicker. I had no idea what the big deal was.
And then I laid down on it.
If God had his choice of bedding (and one would have to assume that He does), there is no doubt in my mind that this is the mattress the Almighty would choose. When you lie down on the Memory Foam Mattress, the spongy foam welcomes and absorbs you. You're not so much lying on it, you're lying in it.
Which now presents me with a problem that I have to deal with every morning. I forgot to mention that the purchase of the mattress included a pair of Memory Foam Pillows which are just as comfy-cozy, and between the pillow and the mattress, they simply won't let me get out of bed in the morning. My alarm goes off, and immediately Pillow and Mattress try to seduce me into going back to sleep:
"Chris, just ignore that obnoxious alarm," says Pillow. "Just let your head sink back into my squishy softness."
"But I have to go to work," I reply.
"Ah, just call in sick," says Mattress. "Wouldn't you rather sleep till noon? We're right here with you, to make sure you're nice and comfortable."
"Well, I do have some sick leave saved up . . . "
"That's the spirit," chimes in Blanket.
"Good for you," says Pillow. "Just shut off the ol' alarm, and you'll be back in Dreamland in no time."
This is what I've been dealing with every morning for the past two weeks. I really should get back to work soon.
Maybe next time Theresa's at Target, she can pick me up a better alarm clock.