Right now I am in my pajamas. But I also put on lipstick so that's some pretty major initiative right there. The fact that I came to class to teach is a miracle unto itself. The week after Christmas my husband and I made the mistake of buying the best mattress in the History of Man. At least the best mattress in the History of Man we could afford at the half off furniture sale on West Broad. We used the cash I'd been saving to go to Yellowstone.
$1200 in twenties, fives and ones.
Of course we'd discussed thousands of things to do with that money but the day he said I cannot take it on this thing one more night and threw the old hand-me-down mattress, box spring and rolling frame into the backyard, I wholeheartedly agreed. I could not bear one more night of pulling all of the pillows out from between the bed and the wall or trying to force sheets back across that stale old cardboard sandwich in the morning.
Our new mattress is made of angel faces and baby wings. You can feel its endless depth beneath you. And you never, ever want it to let you go.
In fact, a few days ago Stan called our new bed "The Vagina of Venus."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"I never want to leave Venus' Vagina again," he said.
"Me neither," I said. Our sheets are red flannel and the bedspread a deep, royal blood red crimson. And to top it off, friends gave us a silky gray microfiber blanket that feels just like a soft, hot tongue.
Heaven is on earth, not Mount Olympus.
Getting out of bed is like being expelled from the womb, each morning a cold birth into a bright new day. Whereas I used to jump up to do something productive like make coffee, now I just want to bear down, grow roots, incubate. I am discovering the lost art of hibernation. Maybe this doesn't come as a surprise to you but life between the sheets is amazingly productive, too.
Most nights we even eat dinner in bed now, too. Even perilously sloshy bowls of hot soup. Our dog, cat and son join us. The only nonparticipant in the family has been George, the beta fish who died last week, probably of a broken heart. Who would want to feel they had been expelled from, or worse, never invited to Venus' Vagina? Not me. Yellowstone can wait.
Thank you, Venus. RIP, George.