Meet Foamy. He’s my husband’s beloved pillow.
I learned early on in our marriage that Foamy was not like other pillows. At first glance Foamy looks fairly normal, but the second I picked Foamy up I knew something was different. Foamy was skinny. Like severely anorexic skinny. I tore off the pillowcase and pillow protector, and to my horror I found this.
Foam. With water-noodle-like cylinders wrapped around two ends. I snatched Foamy’s insides up and went to confront my husband about his “pillow.”
“This,” I said, shaking the yellow square of foam, “is your pillow?” He affirmed that it was, in fact, his pillow. “This isn’t a pillow. This is foam. Wimpy foam.” My husband shrugged. I asked, “How long have you been using this as your pillow?”
“Well,” he began, “when I went on my mission I needed a pillow that didn’t take up much space. So I used that. And I’ve been using it ever since.” According to my calculations, he used Foamy as his main sleeping pillow for about eight years. Eight years!
“You know, pillows are only about ten bucks. Less if they’re on sale,” I told him, completely flabbergasted that he went that long without a real pillow. He just shrugged.
My husband is somewhat a man of tradition, but not in the traditional fashion. He has gets oddly attached to things he’s had around for a while. For example, he’s gone through several pairs of sunglasses in the past couple years, but he doesn’t have the heart to throw them away after they’re broken. So he keeps all of them in his car. I can only guess, but I think the longer they stay there in his car, the more he sees them as a permanent fixture–like a merit badge. They’ve been there for years, so why get rid of them now? I’ve come to grips with the fact that there are certain little trophies he will never part with. Bless his sentimental little heart.
Anyway, to a certain extent I understand his sentimentality about his pillow. I once had an affair with a pillow. I loved it for years and years and even brought it to college with me. The summer after my freshman year I moved home so that I could spend three weeks of the summer touring Poland with a folk dance group. I left my pillow safely at my parents house, and upon my return home I highly anticipated sleeping on my own pillow. Due to the time difference and a very long flight, by the time I got home I hadn’t slept in about 24 hours, and I was ready to sleep. However, it was only 7 pm, so I felt that for the sake of getting back into the groove of my time zone I should wait until at least 9 to go to bed. When 9 pm finally rolled around I realized my pillow was missing. My body buzzing with sleep deprivation, I searched the house high and low for my pillow. It had to have been funny to watch my frantic Goldilocks-esque pillow-testing. Too soft. Too fat. Too lumpy. Too flat. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP WITHOUT MY PILLOW? I very nearly had an emotional breakdown. It’s a little hazy now, but I think my mom talked me into sleeping with another pillow. Which is good, because I never did find that pillow. I might still be awake had I kept looking. I haven’t bonded with a pillow in quite the same way ever since that heartbreak.
Back to Foamy. In Foamy’s defense, he looks much more uncomfortable than he really is. I wouldn’t want to sleep on him every night for eight years, but it wouldn’t be bad for a night or two. It might actually be the perfect size for a toddler. However, parts of the foam are kind of disintegrating, so I hesitate to put Foamy under the head of any child of mine. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.