I do not advise sleeping on a box spring mattress.  I recently tried it and might as well have spent the night tossing and turning over a pile of rocks.  It had been a long day of moving stellar son J.P. into apartment near the medical school, where he will study for the next four years, god willing.  It is a nifty pad he will share with his roommate, another aspiring physician a few years ahead of J.P. and currently M.I.A.  Meanwhile, should my studious son become bored during study breaks, an added perk is his window looks out over the School of Nursing.  Nice.

I have not yet had the privilege of meeting the afore mentioned roomie, as he is on rotation somewhere in New York City, whatever that means.   Nonetheless, the absent yet kind young man offered a spare room in his apartment for my husband and me to stay while helping J.P. get settled.  This is how I ended up on a box spring mattress while kid slept in comfy bed and husband grabbed the cushy living room couch.

Sometime during the sleepless night I decided to head for the kitchen for a glass of water, at which point I tripped over something at the foot of the bed, I mean box spring mattress.  Stubbing my right big toe I reached down  to feel a pile of metal of some sort.  Clicking on the lamp I discovered a small, pink, medical- type pan overflowing with what looked like 101 pairs of surgical scissors.  An eerie, disturbing feeling came over me as I wondered where those tools had been and why there were so many.  Shoving the rather heavy bin aside, I fetched my water, laid back down on the pile of rocks, and wondered to myself.  “Why would one medical student have over a hundred pairs of surgical scissors?   Is he a kleptomaniac?  Does he steel from doctors’ offices and hospitals?  Would he ever use a pair on my only son?  Hmmmm”.

The next morning, exhausted, I decide to toast a few bagels for the three of us.  Rummaging through a fully stocked kitchen, I find everything, including the kitchen sink, but not one knife sharp enough to cut a bagel.  Hauling out the overflowing bin of scissors to scare my husband, he remarks, “Whoa!  That’s a lot of cutters!”  But as for the buns, can’t you just slice ‘em with a surgical scissor?  Maybe the phantom roommate took the sharper knives to the O.R.? “

About now well-rested kid saunters into the kitchen looking for food.

“Morning Glory”, I greet the tossled young med student.  Pointing to the bin, I inquire.  “Do you realize you might be living with Edward Scissorhands?   Look at this!”

“He is studying to be a neurosurgeon, Mom.  Don’t sweat it; it’s none of your business.”

So, I think to myself, I guess a future surgeon can never have too many pairs of shiny scissors.

But a sharp serrated knife might prove helpful…