nfected by the
bourgeoiscocci virus, I suddenly felt that
I must upgrade my home environment to prepare for meetings
and writing sessions with collaborators. Previously, all I'd
ever had was a bunch of
mismatched, broken crud from the street.
ake, for example, my ten-year old, hand-me-down sheets,
which were covered with
For two or three hours a day, I went out
to department stores, discount stores, bed & bath specialty stores.
I had to learn to differentiate between run-of-the-mill 180 thread
count poly blend, 250 thread count Pima cotton, and 350 thread count
Egyptian damask. It was bewildering. I began to lose my objectivity.
nce I had touched nice sheets,
how could I not want them?
How could I not deserve them?
They would kiss me to sleep at night.
They would, I knew, make my
feel cherished.
I couldn't afford them, but suddenly, I wouldn't
settle for anything less.
