They are new, crisp, clean, cool and silky. Encased in colorful, high thread count cotton. Perfectly matched, uniform, without spot, stain or lump.
In a word, hotel pillows are perfect.
They’ve never been scrunched, bunched or punched into that perfect, relaxing shape that feels oh so good as long as nobody moves.
They’ve never been propped up for hours of late night reading until the stress of a nightmarish day drains away.
Or hauled on back seat car rides, stuffed between sweaty children who, somehow, never looked sweeter.
Or thrown on the floor in the den as head props for movies watched with your aching back stretched out flat on the carpet.
Never stolen in the middle of the night by a sleeping pillow thief who can’t find her escaped pillow hiding on the floor on the far side of the bed, relegating you the 3:00 AM choice of sleeping flat or waking her in spite of how comfortable she looks.
They’ve never soaked up tears after a midnight argument or been involved in an impromptu pillow fight that breaks the tension which then dissolves into a giggling fit and makeup sex.
No dog has ever been found curled up asleep on them when you come home early because they hold the scent of the pack leader who committed the sin of leaving the pack and was sorely missed.
No, hotel pillows are perfect.
Which makes sleeping on them so difficult for those of us who are not.
Like so many things that appear better than my life, but end up making me so glad to be home.
Photo by prayitno via Flickr