If I tied together all of the many different brands and types of bed sheets I’ve bought over the years, I could use them to rappel down Mount Everest.

When I was a newlywed, I bought a set of black satin sheets, thinking they would add a romantic touch to the bedroom. They turned out to be so slippery, I didn’t dare wear a silky nightgown when I jumped into bed for fear I’d end up landing on the floor.

I later entered a phase where I enjoyed the feel of crisp, cotton sheets and pillowcases. My husband, however, didn’t share my fondness for them. 

“They’re like sleeping on cardboard!” he complained one morning. “They feel like those sheets hospitals use. And look at my face!”

The wrinkles on the pillowcase left a series of lines across his cheek that made him look as though half of his face had aged overnight. Before I could comment, he added, “And the sheets are noisy! When I roll over, they sound like someone’s crumpling newspaper!”

So I switched to a softer cotton, which he liked, but I didn’t. Every time I washed and dried them, they seemed to shrink a size. It got to the point where the elasticized bottom sheet wouldn’t even stay on the mattress anymore. When one of us rolled over, the corners of the sheet would spring up at us, as if it were an attack sheet. I expected to wake up one morning completely wrapped up in it like a giant taco.

The sheets my husband and I finally both liked were made of flannel. They were soft. They were cozy. They were warm in the winter and surprisingly cool in the summer. The only problem was they were lint magnets. After a while, lying on them was like lying on a bed of goosebumps.

“Maybe you should use that clothes-shaver gadget to get rid of all these lint balls,” my husband said as he was lying on his side in bed and staring at the collection of white bumps that resembled constellations all over the blue sheet.

“I’d have to spend a week shaving it!” I said. “Those little shavers are meant for sweaters and socks, not for something the size of a car.”

Finally, I discovered the answer to all of our problems—brushed micro-fleece sheets. They were softer than flannel, lightweight and, best of all, they didn’t gather lint. They felt like angora—like sleeping on a cloud. I was so excited about them, I bought them in plaids, florals, stripes and solid colors.

Even my husband raved. But his raving was short-lived. 

“These sheets are way too comfortable!” he complained one frigid morning. “I can’t force myself to get out of bed anymore. They’re making me late for work!”

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was having the same problem. Something about the brushed micro-fleece made my body scream, “No! Don’t make me leave this cozy warmth and go out into the cold, cruel world! Let me just stay here curled up in bed all day!”

So I looked into other sheets: bamboo, percale, 400 thread count, 600 thread count, infinity thread count, and didn’t buy any of them. It turned out to be a lot easier and cheaper to just use the bare mattress pad.