There I was headed for Trader Joe's, and I saw that the mattress store was still open, and I popped open, and the next thing I realize, I'm on my phone arranging for enough money to be in my checking account (god, I love living in the future, I didn't have to talk to a single human being to do that) and telling the guy to deliver the bed on Sunday.
"What kind of mattress have you been sleeping on?" he asks me, as I perch on the edge of the unimaginably luxurious cheapest mattress in the store, the one that's discounted $100 on account of the upcoming sale weekend.
"To call it a 'mattress' dignifies the thing a little too much," I say, and he beams at me indulgently; clearly he's heard this sort of hyperbole before. "It was a hand-me-up from my brothers," I elaborate. "One of those folding thingies, from IKEA." He looks sympathetic. "Foam mattress about yea thick," and I measure out about three inches with my fingers. "Then one of those little foam pads, about yea thick," (one inch), "but that's in at least three pieces at this point." Unmitigated horror crosses his countenance. "And then there's the cardboard..." He masters his expression by the time I conclude, "And of course a folded comforter or two, so there's a little bit more padding."
Yes, it was high time for a real, grown-up bed of my own.
It gets delivered Sunday. And they haul the old one away. I can't wait.
Cross-posted to insomnia.