Oh, For a Feather Bed!

Sleeping is a challenge for me anymore. If you're past two, you know what I mean. The bed is a riverbed of stones poking at every sore place on my body; the pillow is a concrete slab which I constantly flip over to get at least a cool sensation on my head and neck for a brief moment. No matter what position I try, lying on either side, my stomach, my back and halfway between all of those, there's just no comfortable state of being for me. I've tried revving the firmness up, deflating the bed to a soft, mushy sponge effect; I take melatonin; I meditate; I count how many times I can think "sleep" before I actually sleep. Sometimes some of the above works; sometimes none of it works. Nada!

The time when I could sleep like a log is when we were in Half-Moon Bay just south of San Francisco at Mill Rose Inn. Now, this is a place I recommend to everyone and I'm not even getting reimbursed to do so.  The Renaissance Room, a heavenly place by the way, has a feather bed to drool over. It has to be at least a foot deep, full of blessed feathers that any self respecting goose would be proud of. When I crawl into that bed and settle in, the most euphoric feeling comes over me and I fall asleep in just a few minutes. It's like sleeping on a cloud if that were possible. There's nothing like it and when I wake up, I feel young again - well, as young as someone who's been around for many decades could muster.

If I were a thief, the feather bed would be top priority on my thieving list. Plus the champagne in the frig, the snifter full of brandy on the cute table in the living room, the grand breakfasts that stuff a person so that waddling down the stairs is rather dangerous, and not to mention the great Pacific Ocean just a couple of blocks away. But since I can't carry all of that, I'll settle for the feather bed. Now I just need to convince my sister to help me.