Stumbling into an underground fight club and discovering that I’m up next to climb into the ring with some very angry shark-like people, becomes a real fear, late at night, when the neighbors’ Christmas lights flash against the walls, creating terrifying fight club scenes that play out like shadow puppetry from hell. Since Nate is about fed up with me shouting, “I don’t want to get into the ring! I don’t know how to fight!”—I’ve been gently pointed in the direction of a weighted blanket for comfort.
Yes, I am now the proud owner of a boring brownish gray blanket that weighs the same amount as the cat (15 pounds), but that weight is spread out in twin-sized mattress measurements, so it actually feels heavier than 15 pounds. It feels like 20-50 15-pound cats are just lounging lazily across my entire body, but it also feels like a big bear hug—but not from a scary bear. It’s a thick and sturdy blanket bear that would protect me from underground fight clubs by saying, “I dare you to just kick me out of the way” and then the fight club owner would try to kick the blanket and stub their big toe.
So, in some ways, the weighted blanket, as I’ve discovered from experience is a kind of a double-edged sword or “bear:” On the one hand, it does seem to offer comfort and protection. On the other hand, if I don’t practice proper lifting techniques, I could pull my back out in the middle of the night. Here’s an example:
Last night, the neighbors’ Christmas lights were on the fritz—flashing like crazy all over the place—so the fight club of my nightmares was in full swing. For about 20 terrifying minutes, I worked up the nerve to try to grab the weighted blanket from the bench in front of the bed and pull it over my body. First, I had to jump over the lava on the carpet because the shark-like people were also spewing lava. (It was a rough night.) Then, I had just seconds to grab the blanket and make it back onto my bed—while hopping over more lava that had just been created. I made a slight twisting motion with my back, while holding the blanket. I knew that I would pay for that move the next morning, but luckily, the weighted blanket, once I used my puny arm strength to pull it up over my chest, pushed the kink out of my back, and I could rest. Mostly because I was exhausted. I think that’s what the weighted blanket does for me. It exhausts me.
Now, I know what you’re all thinking: What is inside the blanket? I think it’s sand. I think there is sand—lots of sand—in the blanket. So, you could probably make one of these yourself. I would imagine you could get an old twin comforter that you’re not using anymore. Next, you could remove the seam from the bottom, take out the stuffing, estimate how much your cat weighs, and pour the equivalent weight in sand into the comforter. Then, you could just stitch the seam back up again. I’m not sure if this is a safe thing to do. If I were to try this, I’m pretty sure the seam would rip and I’d have sand all over the place—and a cat who would think, “Yay! An ‘underground’ litter box. No rules!”
In any case, I’m happy with my purchase. Sometimes, when I lug my blanket over to the bed and struggle to pull it up to my chin, I imagine that I’m resting on the beach, covered in sand. The ocean waves are lapping in the distance. A warm breeze whispers, “Was that tall glass of water right before bed a really good idea?”
Your Turn: Have you ever tried a weighted blanket? What was your experience?