In the strictest sense I don’t need new sheets. One set is fine, washed weekly and replaced, but I have the thought and I act on it. Leap and the net will appear, a friend advises. She means flying off to Cambodia and starting companies, but seventeen bucks for sheets is my level.
Sheets were one of those odd sticking points in the marriage. She didn’t sleep with them, which I found incomprehensible. We compromised on flannel sheets, since they were the thickest and most blanketlike. I like their substance and easy fuzziness just fine. The first set of sheets I bought when I moved in were some Target’s on-sale finest grey flannel.
The thought to buy something other than flannel never crossed my mind. Sheets equal flannel. Only yesterday, in the dim flea market atmosphere of the Ross plunked down like a lost spaceship in a part of town struggling to rejuvenate itself, did I open my eyes to other things. Microfiber. They make Sham-wows out of that. A set with extra pillowcases is only seventeen bucks. It takes twenty minutes to buy them, trapped behind two immense black women arguing with the straw-thin clerk, her head bobbing like a balloon inside her headscarf while the women argue about the price of bedazzled skirts.
They fit fine, but feel thin. Sleeping in them feels elevated, like being in a nice hotel. Did I really need to buy them? The past month has the first comfortably low Mastercard bill in a long time. I am keeping things light, avoiding the material, not distracting myself with the consumer treadmill. Those seventeen bucks here and there add up when the statement comes. When you quit your job to write, as you claim to be planning, won’t you worry about that seventeen bucks?
Leap and the net will appear. Works for cats.