Cooler Than the Other Side of the Pillow

Everyone’s got those few things, those unique items that have been around since the beginning. It could be a stuffed animal, a pewter bank shaped like an elephant, or a blanket with moons and stars. In my case, it’s a pillow. Not a baby pillow, but a regular adult pillow that I’ve rested my head upon virtually every night for my whole life. I can’t remember exactly how I came into possession of this pillow, only that I’ve always had it.

While making the bed last night, I came to a strange realization: my pillow will soon be on the better half of thirty years old.

The idea that time inexorably moves forward is not something upon which I will expound. Nor will I ire endlessly about how quickly it escapes us. I will only point out that in about two months, my pillow will be twenty-seven years old.

It’s not a shock when you look at it. My pillow’s kind of stained, misshapen, sort of bulgy in the middle. It’s been stuffed and re-stuffed so many times, the threads on the edges seem to blur together, defying census. It’s flat in some parts, and sort of wobbly in others, but all in all, I think it’s still got a lot of life left in it.

The fact that my pillow is rounding thirty is not a surprise: it’s sort been looming for the last ten years or so. I think the reason I find myself stupefied by my nearly thirty-year-old pillow is that I always presumed my pillow would be in a much different place by now. Perhaps I imagined a bigger mattress, or a nicer bed spread, perhaps in a farmhouse in the country with horses, or maybe a high-rise flat in Prague. Perhaps, the biggest problem with me coming to terms with the fact that my pillow will soon span three decades is that, maybe, I never bothered to imagine anything at all.

Perhaps my pillow saw itself as more successful when it was younger, perhaps my pillow thinks he made some poor decisions along the way. Then again, how much better can a pillow hope to have it? It has a great bed, a beautiful woman that sleeps next to it at night, and a tastefully appointed house to live in, which is by all means the nicest house it’s ever been in. But why does the pillow sometimes feel like a failure?

It has expressly to do with time. The fucking pillow is almost thirty! By the time his dad was thirty, he was knee-deep in the career that would determine the course of the remainder of his life and he had three children. This is not to say my pillow needs children to justify his existence, it could even be said that the thought of procreation so terrifies my pillow that he’s unsure that he’ll ever be comfortable with the idea until someone forces his own small, defenseless and all-consuming loin-fruit into his arms, pretty much extorting him into accepting the idea on a meaningful level.

I think mostly, my pillow is just disappointed. Facing the prospect of thirty with no meaningful direction, no significant prospects of a lifelong goal and no oversized check for one million dollars to pose with, just makes everything a little more difficult. Perhaps it’s disappointed because the world didn’t tell him where he’s supposed to go, and what’s he supposed to do when he gets there. Worst of all, the world never told him what he’s supposed to be.
Facing the more philosophically vague concepts of joy and personal satisfaction, my pillow is faced with the prospect of having to figure all this out, and I think sometimes it’s daunted by the idea of trying to wrestle these Herculean notions so close to thirty years old, a time when most pillows already seem have a pretty good idea about all that stuff.

Not that my pillow feels like he’s been left behind. Far from it, when my pillow contemplates all his experiences, his assets (physical and mental) and the people all around him that love him and care for him and all that he has, he feels like a very rich pillow, but sometimes he just gets down because he thinks he’s supposed to always want more. But wanting more is good, right? I mean, wanting more will motivate my pillow to get out there and work for what he wants, so that by the time he’s rounding forty years old (yikes) he’ll just be a little less hard on himself, and maybe even a little proud.

My pillow has seen a lot, and been lots of places, and he has a lot for which to be happy and thankful, but I think a little self-deprecation can be good thing, especially when you think there’s more out there for you. But don’t think my pillow is one of those “type A” personality dudes with slicked hair and perfect teeth that always talk about grabbing things, and taking things, and not letting anyone else tell you that you can’t. My pillow takes things one day at a time and, at least I can hope, is generally seen as humble and self-restrained.

Despite the fact that my pillow is feeling significant anxiety about turning thirty in the exceedingly nearer and nearer future, my pillow has a lot to proud about. He lives in a wonderful home, he has a wonderful wife, he has wonderful friends and his family, while terminally psychotic, eventually find their hearts in the right places. Perhaps my pillow will find a way to focus that anxiety into improving himself in meaningful ways that help him understand the world and other people a little better, and god knows he would benefit from a more satisfying career. But these are things that will come with hard work, something with which my pillow if finally coming to terms, a great deal of patience, and whole lot of whiskey.