This morning, I had to fit a king-sized duvet (also known as a comforter) into a form-fitting cover. If you spend a lot of money — a couple of hundred dollars, for example — you generally get a cover for your duvet which has buttons or zippers on at least two sides. This is designed to make the process of stuffing a huge, plump duvet into its cover easier. Because otherwise, this is a lot like putting toothpaste back into the tube.
Spending a lot of money on this was not an option for me. I simply wanted a larger version of the comforter we already owned so we can stop our nocturnal struggle for covers. We don’t get violent, but it can get a bit rough as we battle for the few spare inches available.
This cover was inexpensive. It is possibly the least expensive cover you can possibly buy for a king-size comforter, a whopping $17 microfiber slip case bought from the bottom-end of Amazon’s bedroom specials. However, I’ve bought this company’s products before and they have always been surprisingly high quality, despite the low price. I keep being surprised by it.
The fabric patterns aren’t special, but the colors are normal and the quality of the materials is better than stuff for which I’ve paid a lot more. In fact, my previous comforter has the same cover on it, but it is queen-sized cotton percale. The new one — which is the same design and color — is 100% microfiber. When I bought the first one, it was part of one of those limited time super sales Amazon has sometimes. This was on sale too, but the cotton one was full price. Fifty dollars versus seventeen dollars? I decided I’m not quite that organic. I can cope with a microfiber covering of my not organic comforter.
Next came the insertion of the comforter into its cover. Stuffing a king-size comforter into a big fabric bag through a short, plastic zipper is a thing. I’ve done this before. Many times. As good as you can get at this thing, I’ve managed to be.
So, here’s the routine. Make sure you’ve got the cover and the duvet directionally matching. Long side to long side, short side to short side. As soon as you know you’ve got the two items squared up, grab a bottom corner and shove it all the way through the big bag to the bottom corner of the cover on the same side. Then, do it again so both bottom corners are in the equivalent corners at the bottom of the cover. Usually, this will be opposite the zipper.
Breathe. Stay calm. You’re almost halfway home.
Gently, gently, push the rest of the comforter into the bag. I grab the corner of the comforter and the corner of the bag, one in each hand to make sure it’s sort of squarish. The zippers they use on cheap comforter covers are pathetic, so easy does it. Push the duvet just a bit too hard, and you have a big fabric bag, sans zipper. I have been known to sew up the hole when the zipper breaks, which it has done quite a few times — and not only on inexpensive covers. I’ve owned some pretty expensive items with really cheesy zippers. It makes me wonder why we pay more when we don’t get more for the money.
When I finally get the entire comforter in the comforter, I zip it up, then start to gently shake it until, eventually it settles in … and remarkably, suddenly, all the lumps disappear and it fits. That’s when I fling myself onto the bed, panting while mentally patting myself on my back. Good girl, Marilyn! You’ve done it again.
I was so proud of how efficiently I’d done the job, I went into the bathroom and fixed one more broken item. Okay, it merely required I smack it firmly on a hard surface — not exactly high level physics. Still, fixing anything these days is a minor victory. Modern stuff isn’t designed to be repaired.
Everything is disposable. I hate throwing things away unless they are genuinely useless and beyond repair, so I battle even with small things.
Garry thinks this is admirable. The truth is, almost everything I do is simple. No mathematical complexities, no schematics. I give things a whack to make them fit, to get the hinges to fit into plastic hooks. I look at things, try to see how they should fit together. Then, using some semblance of logic, I try to make them fit like they should.
Garry can’t do that. He looks at stuff and has no idea what it should do. I suppose that’s an inborn quality, like my son’s ability to look at a flat thing and mentally turn it into something three-dimensional — which I can’t do. Or, for that matter, his ability to find his way back to anyplace he has been before. I’m exactly the opposite — I have no idea where I am no matter how many times I’ve been there before.