Good Night, Midas!

You know how the ancient tale goes. Midas gets a wish, is very excited about it. Touches a rose, that turns to gold. Touches a chair, that's now gold as well. Then he tries to eat a piece of chicken and clink, he’s nearly breaking a tooth on a now-24-karat drumstick. We all know this story, it’s the "be careful what you wish for" cautionary tale.

But you know what no one talks about? The hours between 9pm to 3am.

Nobody talks about that specific, agonizing window of time when the adrenaline of being the richest man in history wears off, and the sheer, physical exhaustion of being a human being sets in. Because our poor ol' Midas was still, in fact, a man. And that man was tired. He just wanted to get some sleep.

But gold is heavy. And gold is cold.

Midas stood in the center of his royal bedchamber and was terrified of his own furniture. The room was a sparkling yellow nightmare. Earlier that evening, in a fit of excitement, he’d forgotten to put on his gloves, and while dancing to a song in his head, had swiped his hand across the mahogany wardrobe, gold. Patted the velvet fainting couch, gold. And even high-fived a marble bust of himself, turning it into a significantly more expensive bust of himself.

"Yikes!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the unnervingly quiet room.

Midas walked toward his bed, his sanctuary. It was a massive, four-poster situation with silk sheets imported from the East and pillows stuffed with the feathers of a thousand geese. It was soft, and inviting.

And so he sat down on the edge of the mattress.

Snap. "Oh no!" That snap wasn't the bed breaking, it was the sound of silk fibers instantly fusing into solid, 24-karat metal.

See, Midas had a system. He had these custom-made, double-layered silk gloves and a full-body safety suit he wore to bed so he wouldn't accidentally turn his royal chambers into a jewelry store.

What he hadn't noticed was that while he was dancing around his room earlier, the elbow of his safety suit had caught on the sharp corner of the marble bust. There was a rip. A tiny, treacherous, two-inch tear right on his left tricep.

So when he sat down, that tiny patch of royal skin made contact with the duvet. And like a virus, the gold spread from the point of contact, turning his silk sheets into heavy metal.

"Okay, okay, don’t panic," Midas muttered, rubbing his chest in a circle to steady his breathing. The virus hadn't attacked the pillows, he could still lay his head on those soft geese feathers. In fact, he thought to himself, it’s now a firm mattress. A firm mattress, they say, is good for posture, and posture is most important for a king.

And so he scooted up, gingerly on the bed, careful to be sure his hands didn't accidentally touch the pillow.

Success!

The back of his head was firmly planted on the pillow now, the soft feathers like a warm hug around his cheeks and neck.

But then came the cold.

If you’ve never slept on a three-ton block of metal, let me tell you: gold is one hell of a heat-sucking vampire. It doesn't care whether you’re king or subject, it only wants your body heat. And so, within two minutes, Midas felt like his kidneys were being refrigerated. Eagerly, he reached to pull the duvet over his shivering chest, but that too had become freezing cold metal.

He put his arms around his chest, around his stomach, reached for his legs, trying to share his warmth with as many parts of his body as possible. But it wasn't helping. He was only getting colder.

He tried to roll over to get more comfortable, and in the haste and frustration of trying to position himself properly, his palm accidentally brushed across his pillow.

SCREEEEEECH.

"WHAT?! It was my elbow that had the rip. It was my elbow!" Examining his suit in haste, he noticed the rip in his elbow, and then looked to his palms to see what could have caused it.

And there it was: a tiny little rip right on the tip of his middle finger. The universe wasn't subtle in the message it was sending him.

Angry, Midas got up from his now cold bed of gold, and walked swiftly to the door.

"THEODORE, THERE'S BEEN A RIP SITUATION AGAIN!" Midas screamed into the hallway. "BRING ANOTHER SET OF SHEETS. AND A NEW SUIT. AND GLOVES."

Tired, Midas heaved a quiet sigh of defeat, then to himself, mumbled, "When will this ever be over?"