It's Only A Number

Not my bed.

What's my sleep number? I need a new bed. I've needed one for some time, actually, but I keep finding excuses not to spend the money, or the money disappears from my bank account altogether. Nevertheless, having spent last month's vacation sleeping on beds of much more recent vintage than my own, which was purchased during the Regan administration, I have to acknowledge that I can no longer attribute my morning aches and pains to "sleeping wrong"  or mere aging. For once, it's not me -- it's definitely the bed.

I did spend a recent couple of hours mattress-testing, but was overwhelmed by the myriad options and, of course, the price tags. Do I want a pillow top? Plush or plush-firm? Memory foam with -- or without -- the cooling gel option? How much sleep will I lose by plunking down a whole month's pay on a new mattress and box spring, no matter how heavenly it feels to lie down on such a bed in the showroom? And then there's the matter of size. I currently have a queen, but would it make more sense, economically, to downsize to a full set, or would the need to purchase new bedding cancel out any savings? 

Alas, my bed-mate, Scooter Pie, doesn't really care what sleeping surface she uses, as long as she gets her half, so no help there. And -- here's where it gets kind of sad -- I caught myself thinking, maybe one day I'll be sharing the bed with a bigger-than-dachshund-sized dog, so I'd best stick with the queen sized set. No, no --  it's not sad that I'm acknowledging Scooter Pie's certain demise one of these days. It's sad that I no longer entertain even the prospect of entertaining a human in my bed. 

Or it was sad, for a bit, until I realized that I really don't care anymore. I no longer peruse the profiles on Match.com, GreenSingles.com, or even that site for those of us aged 50-plus. I used to log on to the singles sites much the same way I would go shopping online, optimistic that I would find something that fit, and if I tried something that didn't work for me, I could always send it back. Any hopefulness I would experience has  been replaced with the realization that, no matter how far beyond my own zip code here in Bubbaville I look, I'm not going to find love on an online dating site. But that's okay -- I know that there's nothing for me at Victoria's Secret, too, so I'm not going to waste my time even looking either place.

As for stumbling across a prospective mate in real life, well, that hasn't yielded any better results. Sure, there's that separated guy in my building at work who said he missed me when I was on vacation, compliments my smile, and even brought me some chocolates the other day; but in my book, separated isn't single and, in spite of his decidedly attractive cerebral qualities, he's really not all that when it comes to his views on god and guns. Some things I just can't compromise on. And anyway, since my hormones have pretty much packed up and left, these days the only stirrings in my loins happen when I'm too far from a restroom after having a second cup of coffee in the morning.

Having realized that my sleep number is a one, though, doesn't make the prospect of mattress shopping any easier. Maybe I'll take Scooter Pie along next time.