Search for perfect pillow ends restfully

Recently, I awoke to find the left side of my face scored with tiny scratches. What had happened while I slept?

I looked around the bedroom for clues and noticed it had snowed during the night. On the floor next to the bed was a scattering of soft, white particles. Not snow – feathers! I felt the top of my pillow, and sharp feather fragments poked my fingers. My pillow had silently exploded while I slumbered. No wonder I’d dreamed of fried chicken all night. It was time to go pillow shopping.

My first stop was a big box store. The pillows they offered are huge, just like the store. I tried to lift a super-sized specimen from the bin but couldn’t budge it. I finally found one I could pick up, but it was at least a foot thick. It must be made from the feathers of very obese geese. I didn’t want to sleep sitting up, so I moved on.

My next destination was a linen store. A helpful sales associate led me to the bedding department. She graciously got a chair for me when my knees buckled as I discovered they had pillows on sale for $120! People actually pay $120 for one pillow? The accommodating sales clerk found a $20 down-filled pillow I could sleep with and helped me to my car.

The following morning I awoke and couldn’t move my neck. I looked like Quasimodo. I struggled upright and looked for the source of my misery. At first I couldn’t even find it. My new pillow, now squashed flatter than an unfilled crepe, was so thin it blended into the bed linen. I snatched it up and tried to fluff. A cloud of feathers fluttered through the air, and protruded from several seams.

After a visit to my chiropractor, I marched back to the store. The sales clerk sighed as I approached the register. She handled my refund with courtesy and offered to bring a selection of pillows to the front of the store. Evidently, she didn’t want me to confront the $120 pillow again. I declined.

This time I headed for a discount store. I purchased a $10 “assorted feather filled” pillow, and wondered what kind of assorted birds had been denuded for my comfort.

I slept well that night and the next. On the third night as I did my pre-bedtime fluffing, I felt a tiny jab. Anxiously, I smoothed my hands along each seam and, sure enough, found several places where feathers were making their bid for freedom.

Dejectedly, I looked at my husband, already sleeping, bathed in the soft glow of the night light. I watched him slumber and thought about how he could sleep through anything. Crying babies, vomiting toddlers, teens coming home past curfew – nothing disturbed his snores.

The carpet on my side of the bed has a well-defined trail flattened into it – blazed by a series of tots and teens with middle of the night needs. The carpet on Derek’s side is unblemished. It really wasn’t fair. Speculatively, I eyed his pillow.

The next morning I awoke refreshed, feeling justified in my late night pillow scheme. Stretching contentedly, I burrowed into my bedding. When Derek came into the room to kiss me goodbye, I noticed several small scratches on his cheek.

“Razor must be getting old,” he said as I fingered the scratches. “Hmm…” I replied. He didn’t even notice the trail of feathers that wafted in his wake as he left.