We got a new mattress, and it’s basically the most exciting thing that has ever happened in our seven year marriage.
We aren’t even having sex in it because we have this crazy new mattress narcolepsy every time we lay on it. The first night we had it I woke up at 3am fully clothed, confused and holding an unopened can of Diet Pepsi. I’d only meant to sit down for a second…
The effects of said mattress have been immediate. We’re being way nicer to each other. Like, Andy wakes up and say things like…
You look different.
Your hair seems super shiny.
Your face is extra pretty today.
Even though nothing is even different, dude, I’m just standing upright for the first time in four years and my hunch back is getting less noticeable.
So, I’ve talked about this before, but when it comes to important purchases, Andy and I are super bad at them and super cheap. Like, I’ll spend a stupid amount of money on shoes and Australian licorice from Target on a shop-my-feelings day, or cheese from those cheese counters with the guys with those fake french accents that make me think if I eat the cheese, I’ll be like a french Kate Middleton, but like, things adults are supposed to research and spend legitimate amounts of money on, we put it off. I mean, how can we afford a mattress with a refrigerator full of Kate Middleton cheese, you guys?
Anyways, we saved and finally ordered a mattress from the Internet, because what could go wrong? People order spouses on the internet all the time, and it turns out fine. We were even feel particularly mature, and ordered fancy waterproof covers and sheets with the word Egyptian in them. It’s like, who are we right now? What’s next? Reasonably priced car insurance? Checks without Far Side cartoons on them? Ascots?
Regardless, the bed came, it looked like the photo, had all the correct labels and appeared to have low amounts of asbestos filling and sweat shopping, so we put this one in the win column.
Last night Andy was all, we should christen this bed, and I was like, noooo, it’s still soft and innocent, like Dakota Fanning. You can’t have sex with Dakota Fanning yet, Andy, she’s like 14 years old.
Boner killer, success.
I woke up wet. Like, I wet the bed maybe, I don’t know. I’d done that before after an especially graphic pregnancy dream, and once before that the night of my 21st birthday in a pair of black pleather pants. Have you ever peed in pleather before? The heat fuses them together, so I woke up all freaked out like a wet, drunk mermaid.
But, my crotch was dry, so it wasn’t my pee, maybe Andy peed on me because he was mad I wouldn’t let him have sex on the new mattress? He looks like a chill guy, but he can be spiteful, like this one time when he wanted to go out for Mexican food, and I refused and made him go to this new Indian place, he acted all pissy about it and got food poisoning for like four days after just to punish me.
So I got up and stripped the wet sweatpants from my legs all, what the hell Andy, are you drunk, you peed all over me! And he was all, why am I all wet right now I was dreaming about robots?
So I went to pull the comforter from the bed when a small lump in the center of the mattress sat up, stretched her tiny arms above her pigtailed head, and projectile vomited bile across our cream colored sheets.
Gone is our wide-eyed I Am Sam mattress, I thought, as I tucked a sick girl holding a bucket between us on ratty old sheets, beach towels and my dead grandmother’s quilt.
And the three of us nestled in for a long night on our slightly less shiny Creepy Twilight Vampire/Runaways Lesbian Sex with Kristen Stewart bed.
As it should be.