How it all began
With nothing to do, nowhere to go, and social locked down, I now share more household responsibilities, including making the bed. Bed-making has opened a new insight into my life. In short, I have a new crusade. Not the bed so much as pillows on the bed. For much of my life, a single pad was more than enough. With marriage, a second pillow appeared as you might expect.
But from there, things went crazy. Some interior decorator czar in the New York or Paris fashion district dictated that American bedrooms must now resemble the seraglio in the Sultan’s harem. They demand that you pile pillows of assorted fabrics, shapes, and coordinated colors up to the ceiling. Where do they come up with this crap?
But I don’t live in a harem
Like you, I don’t live in a harem. My home is located in bone-chilling, ice-covered granite New England. We live a simple life in our colonial style home. The architecture and interior would never be mistaken for that of a Persian Pasha or Turkish Sultan. I like it simple and hope to remain that way.
You can find places on earth where beds have no pillows. Sultans could go in for that sort of thing because they never make a bed in their lives. Each morning I spend half the time picking up, fluffing up, and positioning seven pillows. That number is growing each time she goes shopping. I am pushing back. Regardless of what the decorator dictates, neither God nor Allah ever intended man to do endless fluff up labor.
We must set limits.
I have now put my foot down on this matter. Seven pillows are the absolute limit that I will fluff in a single day. Any new cushions will be buried under the bed to gather dust. Masculinity, the Minimalist Design School, and the Male Liberation Movement demand nothing less.
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