This week, Bacon and I bought a queen-sized mattress. I did research and found one we liked at a store close to us. After measuring our old mattress and box springs, and the model on the show room floor, we plopped down the cash. Everything was great . . . until we set it up at home. The bed is unbelievably tall.
Bacon insisted, “It’s only three inches taller than the old one.”
The mattress in the store was only three inches taller. The mattress on my washed pine bed frame is six to eight inches taller.
“It looks like a birthday cake!” I’m starting to screech and pace in half-moon circles around our bedroom.
Bacon scratched his head and shuffled his feet. He’s learned to live with my over-the-top perfectionist tendencies. “You’re right. It looks like a cake.”
Beating the air with my fists and gnashing my teeth, I threatened. “You better take it back!” Bacon stood in silence waiting for the rampage to pass. Regaining control, I measured the bed, the actual bed sitting in my house. Then, I went shopping.
I felt better after buying a king-sized bedspread. The queen-sized version looked like a hat instead of a cover. Bacon’s feet don’t touch the floor when he sits on it, (and he’s 6’7″) but since I’ve learned to Fosbury Flop over the foot board, sleeping on a cake isn’t so bad. At least I got to choose the icing.