Tore Me A New One

It’s just one more way to work on our relationship on our bed.  Recently my husband and I found ourselves in positions not tried before, breathing hard, and feeling worn out.  He looked at me with a tiny drop of sweat dripping from his brow and said, “Next time you’re near the edge, you go first.”

“I’d like to,” I replied, “but my fingers got sore from all the jerking.”

While you may be thinking I’m referring to great sex, I’m not. Unfortunately.  I’m talking about trying to get the fitted sheet on our mattress.

I don’t want this blog to become grouchy-land.  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.  Opinions that either confirm my suspicions or counter with thoughts that make me go, “Hmmmmm…”

Back to the sheets…

Is it just me or have sheets become weird?  I used to be happy with blends before I knew about “thread counts” and different qualities of cotton.  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.  Then the count crept up, and up, and now I’m hearing you might as well sleep on sandpaper if you’re not investing in 1000 count cotton sheets. It’s similar to buying razor blades. One used to be the standard, and now we’re up to five blades with a tandem razor trailing behind with five more just “in case” you missed a micro hair. I’m kidding, but not by much.

Last summer I purchased a set of queen-sized sheets.  (My husband and I like a queen-sized bed so we don’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 “awwww…” 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.  The fitted-sheet easily slipped over our mattress and I had to admit the manufacturer had not lied.  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?  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?  Somewhere, somehow, the generous fabric proportions had disappeared in the dryer.  We could get three sides on the mattress without a chain and tractor rig, but that fourth side was a killer.  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.  I was committed, but the sheets were not.  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?  This is not the first set I’ve had go wonky after a wash or two, nor has the thread-count been a guarantee of quality in my view.  I just purchased a new set from a different manufacturer.  Early indications are following a similar pattern.  The sheets shrank after the first wash, and I’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.