Pillow with no name

There was a big, big Amazon box on my doorstep a couple of days ago. I pretty much knew what it was before I opened it. My body pillow had arrived.

I’ve spent years sleeping single in a double bed. In most respects it’s not a problem. Actually it has a lot of advantages—no one snoring or kicking off the blankets or encroaching on my side of the bed. I can sleep in the middle of the bed. I can get up and get back into the bed a thousand times without anyone shouting, “Donna! For the love of God, can you just stay still for more than 5 minutes?” Or worse, “I’ve had it with you and your coughing—go sleep in the basement.” (I had pneumonia when he said that. I slept in the basement for weeks.)

The body pillow is filled with genuine goose down and has a hypoallergenic cover. It’s nearly as tall as I am and I can manipulate it to suit my moods. I can throw my leg over it when my hip hurts. (I hear Taj Mahal singing, “Throw your big leg on me mama ‘cause I might not feel this good again.")

Last night I had a crazy dream about trying to find a place to pour water into my computer. I often confuse the coffeemaker and the computer, can’t remember which one needs water to function. So when I woke up from the dream, feeling a little too warm, I kicked the body pillow on the floor. Can’t do that with a man. Don’t even try.

Since it shares my bed nightly, I’m thinking my sleeping companion needs a name. It needs to be a male name—that’s just the team I’m on. I know the pillow is made of goose down and the source of the goose down could be my inspiration for a name. I’m thinking pâté de foie gras, the pillow must be of French origin so I’ll call it Alain. Nope—checked the tag. It’s goose down from China. "Damn, why China," she whined. I could call it Mao Tse-tung but I’m not in the mood to snuggle with Chairman Mao. Or I could risk punishment, tear the tag from the pillow, and give it any name I want. I’m working on it. I think it’s worth the risk.