I’ve been traveling a ton for my new job lately. It’s okay. I’ve been eating out a lot on the clients’ dime, so we’ve been going to some dope eateries (RIP beach bod), stacking air miles all the way to the moon while miserably battling America’s airports, and getting to intimately know Marriott hotels across the country.
Staying in all these hotels, I’ve become accustomed to a certain standard of bedding; namely, the sheets. The sheets make me feel like royalty. They’re sheets you want to hang out in. They’re sheets that do the yeoman’s work on the night watch so you can enjoy your sleep. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of waking up in a hotel bed, wrapped up like an Anna’s Taqueria burrito in the finest Egyptian cotton thread counts.
Whenever I get home from these work trips, I scoff at my bed. My skin pleads for me to cover myself in head to toe athleisure just to protect against the harsh fabrics of my mediocre thread count, beaten to hell by years of sweaty nights of wild
sex masturbation and haphazardly sticking to a regular sheet washing schedule.
So I did what any normal 26-year-old dude who likes to pamper himself would do: I schlepped my ass over to Bed, Bath, and Beyond in search of sheets worthy of my naked body.
I barged into a crowded triple B recently and declared out in a booming voice, “show me your finest linens! Sheets so fine that they make the comforter jealous. Sheets so fine the pillows worship their very being. Sheets so grandiose that women will never want to leave my bed no matter how repulsed they are of me!”
No one seemed to bite on my royal decree demanding the finest sheets
money can buy my credit limit would let me buy, so I ventured through the aisles myself, getting lost at every twist and turn. Finally, I found the sheet section downstairs, because it’s NYC and they can’t even make a pool fit on one goddamn floor in this godforsaken concrete jungle. Nevertheless, I found the escalator and put my cart on the nifty device that allows carts to go up and down floors on cart-specific escalator contraption.
I made my way to the back and found the sheet section. I immediately became overwhelmed; I was standing at the bottom of the Mount Everest of sheet sections. There were sheets in every color, thread count, shape, size, and every sheet manufacturer this side of the Yangtze.
“Give me the high-end shit,” my skin screamed out to my brain. “Um, duh,” my brain texted my skin back, equipped with the basic bitch emoji.
I walked all the way to the end, thread count so high they’ve got nerds at MIT working around the clock trying to figure out how they get so many threads per square inch. It’s bonkers. So I grabbed some of the dopest sheets in the joint, too one look at the price tag, and threw up my brunch everywhere. And when they say bottomless, they fucking mean bottomless.
“How could sheets cost so much,” I wondered to myself as I looked around to pick up bits and pieces of my exploded brain off the floor to stuff back into my cranium. I mean, these were nice sheets, don’t get me wrong. The little scrap of sample sheet hanging off the display felt awesome. But when I stepped over to the slightly less expensive sheets with the slightly less thread count and felt that scrap of sheet on that display, it felt the fucking same!
As I went down in thread count (and price) I barely felt the difference! What a frickin’ racket the sheet business is. It’s all the same shit. Sheets are sheets. Thread count? Egyptian cotton? It’s all sham.
Bottom line, sheets are the biggest scam out there. But you don’t have to listen to me. Just ask my friend Aziz Ansari.
PS – I got the expensive shit because I have to act like a ritzy douche now that I’ve moved to New York..