The last time the Domestic Goddess changed my bed, I instructed her to use the flannel sheets. The weather had turned sharply colder, and I wanted to feel their soft warmth that night.
But the madness of midlife change dictates that sometimes, unpredictably, my formerly cool night body rages and raves and cannot abide the comforts of these sheets. Flannel on flannel, nightgown between sheets, raises my personal thermostat higher. I jerk awake. The clock shocks me, showing 1:15 or 1:30. Why, I wonder in confusion, did I wake? Then I feel the damp hair on the back of my neck and the clammy fabric of my nightgown. I sigh and get out of bed, looking in the dark for something else to wear, and when I climb back in, I fling a leg over the covers.