Last night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and thought of all that I needed to do and all that I had missed. I tossed, I turned. And then I realised. Something was wrong here. My room was lightly air conditioned. My mattress was just as squishy as always. My sheets were crisp as ever. The fleecy blanket was pulled up tight. All in order.
Except. This wasn’t my pillow. It didn’t feel like my pillow. And there is nothing worse than not having your pillow. I glanced over at a lightly snoring Hubby and gritted my teeth. I bet that is my pillow. That’s it. Right there. Under his head. And now he is asleep and I’m not.
Deliberate move on his behalf, obviously. So I considered my options. I imagined ripping it out from under his head. Swiftly like those guys who whip tablecloths off without smashing the crockery. But how would I get the other {inferior} pillow back under his head… Dilemma.
And I felt kind. So I let it ride. And resumed tossing and turning. And now, sighing. He is a lucky man, my Hubby. And it worked out all right in the end. Hubby woke up and asked me what was going on. I said, you have my pillow. I can’t sleep. Switch ’em over. He said raising his head just high enough off the pillow so I could slide it out and push another back in.
Thank you. I whispered into the night as I dozed off to sleep. You rule.
Suger 
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