The Grass is Always Greener

"You know, your side of the bed is much more comfortable than mine," Spiceboy says, rolling to my side of the bed and tucking his arms behind his head.

"That's the same thing you said last year when you convinced me to switch sides," I say, flopping onto his side of the bed, which feels pretty comfortable to me.

Once a year, Spiceboy becomes convinced that his side of the bed is horribly uncomfortable and damaging to his back, and he wants to pull the old switcheroo. And I always humor him, you see, because despite Spiceboy's vehement arguments to the contrary, the bed feels exactly the same on both sides.

"Do you want to switch back?" I ask him.

"No, that's okay," Spiceboy says with a heavy sigh, as though his side of the bed is lined with nails and my side of the bed is lined with feathers from the wings of angels. "I'll stick it out on my side."

"Okay, just let me know if you change your mind."

Prediction: We'll switch sides before the summer is out.