I’m ashamed to admit it, but when I changed my sheets the other day, I realized I needed more than one hand to count the months since I washed my mattress pad.

OK, I just heard my mother faint in California. But there’s a reason I put off laundering the pad. It’s the same reason I don’t climb ropes, do triathlons, wrestle professionally or brush my teeth: I have the upper body strength of overcooked linguini. And frankly, my mattress cover is a smarty pants.

The problem is, instead of pre-shrunk Egyptian cotton, I went for the $5.99 special at Wal-Mart. I think it was woven from twine. After the first washing, the fitted pad shrunk so much, it looks like a shower cap.

So after laundering it again the other day, I smoothed the tiny bonnet of elastic-rimmed cotton in the center of my double bed and stared in anxious disbelief.

I started in, hooking one fitted corner over the left edge of the mattress. Then, not having a housemate to secure the other side, I raced around the bed to the right top corner and attempted to stretch the shriveled pad over that mattress corner. I tugged and yanked until my shoulders burned, but the pad was still a good 18 inches short.

I ran back to the left side and pulled the cotton from beneath the mattress until the elastic was barely clinging to the top edge of the mattress. I trotted back around the bed, grabbed the right corner of the pad again and yanked like I was pulling the Titanic to shore.

Suddenly, the left corner popped off the mattress, and the pad flew at my face like a vampire shower cap. I careened backward and knocked two pictures from the wall.

I decided to pre-stretch the evil pad, tugging until my triceps cramped and something in my back stabbed with pain. As I pulled the elastic, I could hear it groaning and tearing – but it could have been my ligaments tearing.

I started fresh with the bottom corners and tucked one side under the mattress. Holding it in place, I stretched my arm across the bed and tried to one-handedly inch the other corner over the edge and under the mattress. Sweat rolled down my spine, and my shoulders pulled from their sockets – but the bottom finally stayed in place.

Then, I coerced the top toward the headboard and was a foot away when the bottom corners popped off with snarky glee. I sobbed. It’s times like these when being single loses its appeal.

But now I was furious. It was a raging death match with the uppity pad. I twisted into every position, even lying spread-eagle on top of the pad while stretching it to the four corners with my teeth and toes. After four hours of pitched battle, the pad finally succumbed and inched into place.

And now, go ahead and swoon, Mom, but I’m not washing it again until it disintegrates.