NotTheRock Musings

Over the recent weeks and months, my wife has slowly been moving into the house and getting things in order. Yes, we moved her stuff in a while back, but getting the house situated and putting her touch on things takes time. Lots of time.

Among the things she spent some time on was our bedroom. And in the bedroom, back when it was my bedroom, was my pillow. A Pac Man pillow. Yes, I was kickin' it, old school. It was a Pac Man pillow, not unlike the one pictured here, and I got it when I was probably somewhere around 5 or 6 years old.

Because I'm efficient and not wasteful, I had seen no need to purchase a new pillow over the past twenty-five years, give or take. I was still using Pac Man. He had seen me through puberty, high school, college, my career, and into my 30s. I had some of the finest sex of my life with that pillow as my support -- literally.

Granted, Pac Man was beginning to get a bit flattened, threadbare, and faded. But he was going strong and I had no need to replace him.

My mother and sister began putting the idea in Watersyne's head a while back that my beloved pillow was "disgusting" because it was so old. They reasoned that it had "dust mites" living in it and, well, once my lovely wife heard that, all bets were off. It was going to be her mission to take my pillow away from me. She brought it up whenever Pac Man peeked out from his pillowcase -- so I did my best to keep him hidden and out of her sight.

Well, two weeks ago, when I came home from work one day, Watersyne had done wonders to our bedroom. There were snazzy curtains up, a new duvet cover, nice new shams, and the room was cleaner than ever. She had also been working on one of our many plastic storage bins and after gauging my mood, she led me to the storage bin, and showed me what was at the bottom.

My Pac Man pillow.

There he was, squished under several other pillows and blankets that were "going into storage," much the same way your parents sent away your 14 year old golden retriever to "live on a farm."

"See, we're not getting rid of it," Watersyne reasoned.

I didn't really expect to win the argument. And even though I felt like I made pretty good points, I still don't expect to ever see my Pac Man pillow again. Truth is, I never really thought I'd have it forever -- I knew this day would come. Women like to find the things you use over and over.... and trash them. Like your favorite flannel shirt or your best faded jeans or your most trusty workboots or your comfy old college sweatshirt with the salsa stains on it.

"Why must you take away the one thing I use every single day?" I asked, as patiently as I could.

Her calm composure dissolved after just one question from me: "It's gross! It's disgusting! It's so old there are dust mites in it!"

"Oh, you and my mom and sister and the damn dust mites! What did you replace it with?"

"One of my pillows from my apartment," she replied.

"How old are they?"

She paused. "Maybe ten years." (Which means at least ten years.)

"Okay," I slowly answered, kind of enjoying this, "So my twenty-five year old pillow is disgusting and unacceptable for use, but your ten year old pillows are safe and clean? Do I have this right?"

I was proud of myself because I was clearly making good points. This wasn't just me wanting to hold onto something for the sake of resisting change -- no, I was enjoying this not because I couldn't give up my pillow, but because her logic for doing so was something I simply felt like challenging.

She lost interest in the argument just as I was gaining steam and simply closed the lid on the bin and rejected my appeal.

Bye, Pac Man. It's been a good run.

Labels: Pac Man pillow, women always ruin the fun