I'm currently married to someone who has an actual addiction to buying sheets. This is not something I am capable of comprehending. Before I met Skylar-what's-his-name, I don't think I had ever actually bought sheets in my life. Sheets were like pillows—you just somehow had some.

Then I married him and suddenly we were buying a new set of sheets every 72 hours from hundreds of stores across the planet. Why? Why do we need so many sets of sheets? I don't know.

I wish we didn't need so many sets of sheets because, and I'm not sure if you were aware, sheets cost eleventy million dollars each. Why? Why do they cost so much? Are they handstitched by celebrities in Switzerland?

He swears each sheet purchase is an upgrade, but they all seem the same to me. Just one long flat piece of fabric. One long expensive flat piece of fabric. They all feel the same. They all look the same. They all are the same.

And so, understanding my correct position on this, you can imagine my bafflement when, not two weeks ago, Skylar Delores Kimberly Westerdahl, picked out a set of sheets at a store made of gold and insisted we add them to our summer collection.

"Do we really need more sheets?" I asked, innocently. I was waved away with a dismissive hand and the next thing I knew, we had purchased new sheets that were so expensive that none of you get to go to clown college now.

I will admit that I was in a very bad mood through this process. It was hot and the transaction was taking a long time and I was really disappointed about clown college. So by the time we left the store, I was fully forbidden from commenting any further on any bedding purchases.

The next thing I knew, a scream was coming from our bedroom. "These are the wrong size!" Skylar had yelled. The sheets were then deposited into my car in an implied command to drive basically to Panama, back to the store to exchange them.

"I don't want to be involved in your sheet situation," I had told him. "I'm going to let you do this return on your own time."

So yesterday I drove to the store and exchanged the sheets. The sheets I didn't want for some other sheets I don't want.

"Did you still want to go with the Washington delight ultra fabric cascade gerrymander cotton linen fiberglass the lost city of Atlantis sheets?" the employee asked me.

"Dude, I don't know," I sighed. "I just work here."

"I just work here" is my new phrase around the house. I use it to acknowledge that I no longer have any control of my life.

"Where do you want this giant tree you bought planted?" a gardener recently asked me.

"I don't know, man. I just work here."

I gathered the new purchase and drove the thousands of miles back home where I handed the replacements over to the man who swore on his soul to never make me do stuff like this at a very expensive wedding where he was already making me do stuff like this.

Skylar squealed, took the sheets from me, and shoved them into a closet.

"Don't you want to put them on the bed?" I asked.

"Nah," he said. "Let's save them for a special occasion."

~It Just Gets Stranger