In September my husband started asking for the “fuzzy” sheets. When would I put them back on the bed, would I put them back this week, could we please have them pretty soon? I don’t like to be too warm. I don’t like to be too cool. I like to be just right. September was too early.
I changed the sheets before I went Somewhere Else. I put flannel sheets on the bed and fluffed up the down comforter. I hugged my husband before I left. I told him the sheets were changed and he could just crawl in, and watch TV to his heart’s content. He did not. He slept on the couch the entire time I was gone; falling asleep during the evening news, with the lights on I’m sure, waking up in the middle of the night, shutting the lights off but watching more TV because his sleep pattern was disrupted.
When I got home he was exhausted from lack of sleep, too much TV, and not enough room to roll over. He started to drift off and I wheedled him right into the bedroom between the fuzzy sheets where he slept like a baby right through the night.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t wash the coffee pot either. It’s safe to assume that he just rinses it out like it was never dirty in the first place. When I’m here I run a tight ship. I like things to be tidy and I like to be the one who sets the tidiness standard.
When I leave I suspect he’s happy that he can do whatever he wants while I’m gone. It is apparent, to me, that he does very little of what he wants while I’m away. He waits patiently and does as little as possible until I return and his life resumes it’s normal pace.
It’s a contradictory state of affairs. I LOVE that he is so comfortable with our routine. Sometimes that routine makes me want to hurl myself off a cliff from the boring predictability of it. A little thing like fuzzy sheets makes the routine seem fresh.
I know what I have and I appreciate it. The best presents come wrapped in fuzzy sheets.