In Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale, the prince’s mother tests the young woman’s claim that she is a princess by placing a pea under 20 feather beds. When the woman complains of a restless night caused by something hard in her bed, the mother rejoices and the young couple marry in a lavish wedding common people can only dream about. Because people of royalty have an unusual sensitivity to things that are not of pure decadence and comfort, her heritage is proven by a single pea.

If this is true, I’m a goddamn princess!

Never mind a gargantuan pea — I can feel even the most microscopic crumb. I will tear the bed apart to find the offending particle.

A loose strand of hair feels like rope against any bare skin.

If the sheet shifts, exposing the fuzzy blanket second blanket, I have to move until I feel only the smoothness of the sheet.

A wrinkle or crease in the blanket is enough to cause me to wiggle and kick until it flattens out.

My husband has absolutely no problem sliding into an unmade bad and will lie there, his face contorted with a mixture of bemusement and rage, as I pull all the blankets tautly around him.

While I cling to the belief that I surely descend of royal blood, he simply calls my nightly routine my “blanket bullshit”.

OFF WITH HIS HEAD!