Nothing says middle age like passionately recommending a mattress.
The Sleep Number came to me early in my adulthood, before I could appreciate it, before I was middle aged. It was an era in which I was still often the youngest in the conference room, only a few of my friends -- the old souls -- had kids, and I was mere months into marriage. My husband had neck & back pain, was exceedingly uncomfortable while he slept, and after an onslaught of expensive pillows continued to show up at our house and in our bed, I found myself following him into the local Sleep Number franchise.
As we evaluated the options (all of which were varying degrees of hospital beds, as far as I could tell) I had the smug indifference of a healthy person in their early 30s. I didn't need a hospital bed. I didn't wake up sore. I was a newly wed for God's sake! My husband and I should be tangled in a twin bed, limbs intertwined all night. Or so they say.
As often happens when a savvy salesperson in a polyester polo shirt preys on someone with chronic pain, we chose the most extreme, most expensive, most hospital-like option. It cost more than a small car; it was by far our single biggest expenditure outside of our home's down payment, which we made just months prior.
I was happy to support my love. I was chagrined to be in my own twin bed, lying parallel to but very separate from husband, as he precisely adjusted his head elevation and mattress firmness each night and then analyzed the results in the app the next day.
Yet I here am, two vaginal childbirths and decades of weekend-warrior-ing my way through half marathons and a few sprint triathalons later, and I love nothing more than my sleep number.
Let me count the ways:
I can't recommend it enough.
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