The other night, the night we set the clocks back, I tried something new, something different: I put an electric blanket on my bed for the first time ever.
This was a pretty daring move, brave even, because I’ve always been perfectly content with down comforters — I found their bulk and weightlessness (how’s this for clever?) comforting. And plenty warm, too. In other words, I had no complaints. Not one.
But with that simple change, the whole bedtime experience was transformed. The old routine of turning down the covers and crawling into bed was gone, adiosed. Going to bed became, instead, like climbing into a toaster; a warm, cozy, snugly toaster. A toaster from Pooh Corner, maybe, or the Keebler elves, some place magical and hospitable, anyway.
When I popped out of bed in the morning, *boing*, I fully expected to be a light, golden brown. I wasn’t, though. What I was was ravenously hungry. Most probably because my dreams had been of rotisserie chickens, yum, and convenience store hot dogs, meh, all of them basking happily behind plexiglass.
The chickens were decked out in board shorts, the hot dogs in Ray Bans, and the soundtrack was Fever by Miss Peggy Lee. It was an enchanted night.
This new paradise could be my downfall. I love spending time there, so much so that I may not rise again until May, April if there’s an early spring.
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