I’m not sure how it happened, or when they first appeared or any other such detail that can explain this calamity away.
Surely, we must have had some argument, my wife and I; one of seismic proportions. There is no way that I would have accepted this without a fight.
The trouble is I just can’t remember any of it.
As a child, there were images of race cars and aircraft on my bedding, then C3PO and R2D2. In college my linens boasted a very straight-forward plaid pattern.
Now, with all the subtlety of a shotgun blast, there are flower patterns on my bed sheets.
I don’t have an issue with flowers, per se. Fact is, I think that they are actually quite tolerable. Flowers add beauty to the natural world. They are highly functional, too. That photosynthesis thing is pretty compelling stuff.
There is, however, a limit to all this floral glorification.
A tuxedo lapel. A Polynesian vacation. A dozen roses to say you’re sorry. These are the extenuating circumstances that necessitate a man to mingle with flowers.
They do not belong on a man’s bed sheets.
How did I let this happen?
Was I at fault? Did I unwittingly agree to this arrangement during bites of a double-double at In-N-Out (in which case I have positioned myself for an insanity plea)? Did I agree to these sheets as a resolution to a long-forgotten battle?
Or worse yet, did I forfeit my right to challenge this decision, electing instead to occupy my Saturday afternoon watching all the relevant college football games that carried Top 25 implications while she roamed the sales floor of the linens section unchecked? (Sheet selection without representation is tyranny)!
I will not accept these conditions; these deplorable expectations that require me to lay my head on a pillow covered with wild poppies.
I will devise a plan; one with remarkable cunning, like a slider in the dirt on a 3-2 count or calling a reverse on an aggressive, over-pursuing defense and twelve other sports-related analogies.
It will require the stealth of a jungle cat, the courage of a D-Day paratrooper and the conviction Churchill.
Mountain out of mole hills, you say? A big stink out of nothing? Ha!
I write this post from a very sensitive position. You see, my personal habitat has systematically vanished over the past few years. Such is the virtue of marriage.
This post is a line in the sand, the Mason-Dixon line of inter-gender affairs, the 39th parallel between chicks and dudes.
An encroachment penalty in the NFL will cost you five yards while a similar infraction by your wife at home will go unchallenged. The consequence that I have endured has been a diminshed sense of self. My dignity sits like a cigarette butt on the side of the highway. My testicles are suspended in a jar of formaldehyde on my wife’s nightstand.
I love my wife to pieces, but this subtle and quiet emasculation must come to an end.
And it starts with taking back my bed sheets.