Each morning I awake to existential questions. It’s simply a part of contemporary American life, a burden we live with.
In an earlier time, lying in bed and watching night become day, I would replay in my mind the last 18 holes I played. Recollecting what could have been, if only I had done this, or that.
Will we go to war with Russia? This is a big one. Will the world end in 12 years because of climate change, like AOC says? (Or is it 10 years?) Even before then, will we be wiped out by a new super-virus that makes COVID-19 look tame?
Last but not least, what are all these pillows doing in my house, and why must I live with them? Truth be told, I find this one almost as gnarly as Putin. The only thing I can establish as fact is who put them there: my wife did. Yet in all other respects, applying Churchill to pillows: “A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” So true.
To start off (and where to start?), what purpose do pillows serve? As all men know, what’s critical when it comes to possessions is that they must have a valid purpose, and if they don’t, then they’re not worth having around, and indeed must go, to avoid evil clutter.
Everyone knows what a wrench does, and thus all wrenches are valuable and good. There’s no arguing what a TV does, which is we why we own so many. And the list goes on: corkscrews, classic cars, red wine, putters and wedges, bourbon, LP album collection, etc. Point made.
But back to pillows. Of course I recognize that there are different types of pillows — I get it! Admittedly, a pillow upon which to rest my head and sleep is a necessity — a single one. Similarly, I appreciate the availability of a nearby, designated pillow should I need something between my head and sofa arm when we watch her movies and I might doze off. But here again, demand for one should equal supply of one. Economics 101.
Speaking of sofas and beds, these in fact are the two best examples of where multiple pillows — no, row upon row of pillows — are “anti-functional.” (Synonyms: useless, ridiculous, scandalous.) Take any full-grown man and sit him on a sofa packed with loose pillows and what do you get? Answer: a big, extremely uncomfortable person (or me) with only half his butt on a cushion proper and half his butt hanging suspended in the air. Likewise, put any normal guy on a similarly-filled bed and what happens? He can’t get near the headboard, can’t find his favorite crease in the mattress, both of which can cause orthopedic injury — the real danger of having too many.
And then there’s the perplexing issue of colors. Bluntly put: Why are pillow colors so crazy and different from the color of everything else around them, say a wall, sofa, or bedspread? Is there some kind of rule requiring this? And if so, what is its authority? Do I really like international orange? Yes, on life jackets. How about lime green? Sure, on golf slacks. But not around the house, which should look really basic — like my childhood home.
Finally, let’s talk about the cost of these damn things. Outrageous! I saw a $3,400 tag and nearly had a coronary. The salesperson said the price was wrong — supposedly someone had included an extra zero — but even then, is the fabric spun of gold? — are they stuffed with $20 bills? Here’s an opportunity for Costco to clean up. Think about it: rotisserie chickens, batteries, cat food, detergent, paper towels, toilet paper, flank steaks, water, sushi, and one or two backup pillows a year.
Honestly, pillows follow me around like a bad dream. Our house before Vero Beach was filled to the brim with them — probably 150. On top of this, my wife owned a staging business, using half the basement for inventory, which included 200+ pillows. So that’s 350+ total — insanity! And get this, a second property had more, putting us into the 450 territory. All at absurd prices! Do the math! I could have retired years earlier!
And, of course — a last kick in the butt — when we moved we got rid of every one for a nickel on the dollar. Why? Because they wouldn’t “work” in Florida. (I’m feeling chest pain again.)
So this morning at breakfast my wife informs me I should feel good about our much smaller current home. Why? I ask suspiciously. Because it has far fewer pillows! And how many do I count if I walk around? 44. Yup, she’s something . . .
Just one more thing. How about what they call them: “throw” pillows. Well, that’s exactly what I want to do when I see a pile — heave them, like King Kong slinging attackers — one left, one right, one left, one right. Clear the decks!
But I won’t do it. Because I’m a good husband. Still, the answer to the opening question for me is this: I can never love pillows beyond two or three. Unless you can show me a purpose.
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