a bed of lies

I like to think of myself as a fairly smart guy. You know: I can calculate tips of varying percentages without needing a calculator, I don't fall asleep before finishing a New Yorker article, I never use more than one exclamation mark at a time -- that sort of thing. But it seems my wits are no good when pared against cunning mattress salesmen -- or one cunning mattress salesman somewhere in the East Bay, to be specific.

To make a long story short, I found out today that, for the past six years, I've been sleeping on a full-size mattress when I thought I was sleeping on a queen.

That's right, I measured my mattress today (because it's about time we finally get it off the floor and put it on a bed frame, don't you think?) And guess what? My mattress guy pulled the old switcheroo! And I didn't notice for six years!

Oh, sure, go on. Laugh. Ask me why I didn't get out the measuring tape a long time ago -- like when I first bought queen-size sheets and they were just a little bit too big for the bed? Why haven't I ever wondered why my feet stick out over the bottom of the bed at night? Why did it take me six years to figure out that I got duped by a mattress salesman?

I assure you, there are good answers to all of those questions. For instance, imagining one's self to be taller than reality might have something to do with it. But let me ask you something: Has it really come to this? Do people really get out the measuring tape and verify that their mattress is indeed the size that the package says it is?

I have so, so much to learn.

The worst part is, the bed was a decent size for the Wife and I yesterday. Now it feels like we're sharing a coffin.