Font ResizeAccording to the established norm for most mammals — except perhaps for college students cramming for finals, bats and Amy Winehouse — my ultimate nighttime destination is the land of Nod.
I hear it's a peaceful place, full of fancy, adventure, perils, triumphs and sometimes moments in which to stand on a stage in front of thousands of people with no clothes on. But I can't speak from experience. I hardly ever go there because I lack the proper conveyance for my journey — a tender transport, a charitable chariot — and instead I linger in the mattress-shopping version of the "Twilight Zone" where the search for sleep is truly a nightmare.
As I write this, I am groggy beyond belief, my back is sore, there's a twitch at the corner of my eyelid and my right hip throbs with pain like a toothache. For the past year and a half, we have had a fine mattress. Not a cheap one, but a good Sealy Posturepedic pillow-top that seemed comfy in the 10 minutes I reclined on the store sample with the clerk's anxious face hovering over me like those scenes in movies when someone wakes up after fainting.
But in just weeks, I started to hurt. Unable to return it, I opted to modify it. On top of the mattress, I placed sections of one of those egg-crate pads I got at Wal-Mart, sliced into sections so that I could put two or three layers under my hip and only one under my back. I also started sleeping with a
Still, Z's remain elusive, logs go unsawn, the only REM I get is on my friend's iPod, and I wake up numerous times in discomfort. When I hit the sack, it hits back. I figure I haven't had a good night's sleep since "... let's see, when did "Star Wars" come out? The first one. Yeah, it'd be about 10 years before that.
Oh, "Get a new mattress," you say? To which I respond with a weak, "Hah!" I've had new mattresses, my friends. I go through mattresses like most people go through toasters. And that's why it's all so painful. A mattress is a huge purchase that you can't just toss, but you can't always tell right away if it will work. With a toaster, it's pretty obvious that it's setting your bagel on fire. But a mattress may hold off. Bide its time. Then try to kill you a few months down the road when you least expect it, and long after any possible hope of exchange or refund has expired.
I've tried traditional mattresses. I've tried new-fangled mattresses. I tried European Sleep Works, but could only afford the cheapest one and, it turns out, it doesn't work if you're a really small person. (You're supposed to sink into it, but I was like a piece of paper on top.) You can't return those, so we sold it on Craigslist.
We tried the Sleep Number Bed. You know, the air mattress Lindsay Wagner advertises because of the special care her bionic joints require. I thought that would be the answer, because you can adjust the firmness with individual air chambers. But when it was soft enough for my hip, it became a hammock and killed my back. Those are pricey, but you can test them for 30 days, which they extended to 60 days, and then return it for a full refund. Which we did.
My husband bought a regular air mattress from REI, the kind for camping, but it was like trying to balance on a big bubble. I'm really comfy on our couch, which is just latex foam cushions, so we tried a couple of foam things from various sources, and ended up selling them on, yup, Craigslist.
Now you'd think these decisions were all willy-nilly, but no. I've done my research, poring through online user-review sites, which didn't help because somebody loves and somebody hates everything. But at least by now I'm informed. I know all the return policies, or lack thereof. All the sales pitches. Are you a back, side or stomach sleeper? (What if I'm all three?) I know all about pressure points, memory foam, coil configurations and pillow-tops. I totally want to punch the Serta sheep, no matter how cute they are.
We even went so far as to look, just look, at those Swedish Dux beds with adjustable lumbar support, "personal comfort zones" and more springs than a Slinky factory, only to come out of the store doubled over in laughter. Wanna guess how much the cheapest one is? No, higher. No, higher. OK, I'll just tell you: $6,000! Hahahaha! That's for the no-frills nonadjustable one! And they go up to 12 grand! That's a car! Granted, a used Land Destroyer, but still!
Oh, "Maybe it's just you," you say? To which I respond, "Nuh-uh!" See, I know it's not, because I have actually had a few comfy nights. One was at the Grand Californian at Disneyland, where I was so snug I almost canceled my date with Mickey Mouse. Almost. We looked to see what kind of mattress this was, but there were no brand tags on it. Had they been removed "under penalty of law"? The front desk clerk didn't know either. I decided this was because it was a magical Disney bed made with fairy dust, or stuffed with Disney characters who don't quite pull their weight when it comes to merchandising. Maybe the less popular dwarves, such as Doc and Happy.
I also loved my cousin's bed in Chicago where we stayed for a visit last fall. That was a Sealy Posturepedic Victorious Cushion Olympic Team bed. She bought it during the 2004 Olympics, and lots of tiny gymnasts must have used it for a pommel horse and softened it juuuuust right. They don't make that one anymore, of course, and my cousin wouldn't give it to me. No love.
Sigh. What I really need is a sleep consultant. A guide. A mattress-shopping sherpa. Or maybe a dream team, like those makeover people on TV who, after examining all your strengths and flaws, know, just know that a Jimmy Choo cosmo metallic clutch will make your life just perfect!
All I know is, my back hurts, my hip hurts, my checking account hurts. So the search continues, and maybe someday I'll find comfort.
Dream on.
Reach Angela Hill at ahill@bayareanewsgroup.com.
