When the holidays have ended and I’ve digested enough homemade snack mix to construct an imposing and delicious wall of heavily seasoned Chex cereal along the entire U.S.-Mexico border, retailers throughout the country often place deep discounts on exciting big-ticket items like televisions, luxury furniture, and septic tanks.
It was during one of these holiday post-mortem sale seasons that my wife and I noticed our mattress beginning to take on the shape of a sadistic landscaping project. As we lay in bed, it was like we each occupied our own drainage canal on either side of a steep ridge of no-man’s cushionry. Once I could no longer muster the energy to hike over Mt. Lumbago to kiss my wife goodnight (much to her relief), we knew it was time to shop for a new mattress.
We first stopped at one of those mattress superstores emblazoned with “72-Month Financing with No Interest!” posters all over the windows. We should have known by the inflatable air dancer flopping around outside what lay in store — a lot of hot air and awkward gyrations.
