Itâ€™s just one more way to work on our relationship on our bed.Â Recently my husband and I found ourselves in positions not tried before, breathing hard, and feeling worn out.Â He looked at me with a tiny drop of sweat dripping from his brow and said, â€œNext time youâ€™re near the edge, you go first.â€
â€œIâ€™d like to,â€ I replied, â€œbut my fingers got sore from all the jerking.â€
While you may be thinking Iâ€™m referring to great sex, Iâ€™m not. Unfortunately.Â Iâ€™m talking about trying to get the fitted sheet on our mattress.
I donâ€™t want this blog to become grouchy-land.Â Nor do I choose to become one of those people who fondly remembers days of old while ignoring the wonders of today. However, I do get curious about things and would love to hear other opinions.Â Opinions that either confirm my suspicions or counter with thoughts that make me go, â€œHmmmmm…â€
Back to the sheets…
Is it just me or have sheets become weird?Â I used to be happy with blends before I knew about â€œthread countsâ€ and different qualities of cotton.Â Organic cotton, Egyptian cotton, cotton gnawed on by organic Egyptian boll weevils in full orthodontia, and so on.
Years ago I thought I was getting a deluxe product when the thread count was over 200 per inch.Â Then the count crept up, and up, and now Iâ€™m hearing you might as well sleep on sandpaper if youâ€™re not investing in 1000 count cotton sheets. Itâ€™s similar to buying razor blades. One used to be the standard, and now weâ€™re up to five blades with a tandem razor trailing behind with five more just â€œin caseâ€ you missed a micro hair. Iâ€™m kidding, but not by much.
Last summer I purchased a set of queen-sized sheets.Â (My husband and I like a queen-sized bed so we donâ€™t have to pack an overnight bag to find each other in the middle of the night. Even after twelve years of marriage, we crave that closeness. You may say â€œawwww…â€ at this point. No, go ahead, I’ll wait.)
Anyway, the sample sheet material in the store felt silky soft, and the all-important thread count was 600. The packaging description said it would fit extra thick pillow-top mattresses or puny, thin, hand-me-down mattresses left over from childhood. At least that was my interpretation.
Once I got them home and put the sheets on the bed all was good.Â The fitted-sheet easily slipped over our mattress and I had to admit the manufacturer had not lied.Â Sleep wafted over us while our bodies felt caressed by 600 hundred count butterfly wings.
Then I washed the sheets.
The silky texture was gone and replaced by, shall we say, angry cotton?Â Like a feral cat, the fibers definitely bristled at us whenever we approached the bed.
And, might I add, that was only after my husband and I tag-teamed to wrestle the fitted sheet onto the mattress?Â Somewhere, somehow, the generous fabric proportions had disappeared in the dryer.Â We could get three sides on the mattress without a chain and tractor rig, but that fourth side was a killer.Â Ten rounds and two nine-counts later we had the bed made, but it took both of us to subdue that sheet.
After a couple of weeks the seams began ripping on the fitted-sheet corners, and I was forced to dust off a needle and unravel the lumpy ball of thread spools in my sewing kit.Â I was committed, but the sheets were not.Â No more 600 count love, caresses, or nocturnal togetherness. We were now officially splits-ville.
What do you think? How are your sheets behaving? Does thread-count matter?Â This is not the first set Iâ€™ve had go wonky after a wash or two, nor has the thread-count been a guarantee of quality in my view.Â I just purchased a new set from a different manufacturer.Â Early indications are following a similar pattern.Â The sheets shrank after the first wash, and Iâ€™m wondering how long before my husband and I once again try some new positions in bed, but not in the good way. Wink, wink.