Nina Lewis

So we got a new mattress.

In the days of yore, mattresses were ten, maybe twelve, inches deep.  My how things have changed.  Our new mattress is one hundred times deeper.  Nay, a thousand times deeper.  A million times!

Should we install an elevator to get to the top?  Do they make them that tall?

Before I begin my ascent to the top of the mattress, I grab my oxygen mask and take altitude sickness medicine.  Sometimes they help.  Once I’ve reached the summit, I fear the onslaught of pulmonary, peripheral, and cerebral edema.  My significant other (who shares this mattress with me) says that our mattress is not the cause of my cerebral edema (swelling of the brain which he calls ‘Ms. Fat Head Syndrome).  I think I’m going to push him over the edge of our mattress and watch him splat on the floor below.  Ms. Fat Head indeed!

Heaven help me when I kick my covers off and then later need to pull them back up.    I sit on the edge of the bed and peer down to the red speck that is my comforter that I see far, far, below.  It’s easier reaching for something at the bottom of the Grand Canyon than it is getting something off the floor while staying on top of my bed.  I need rappelling gear with lots of safety harnesses to ensure a safe trip down and back.

But I must say the pillow top is very comfy.  Like sleeping on a cloud.  I guess that makes the height bearable.  Barely.

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