As I strip the
bed of its sheets, I am reminded of my childhood for some reason. I go through
the motions of pulling the heavy comforter to the floor, followed by the woolen
blankets, followed by the flannel top sheet, and then the bottom flannel sheet.
The pillows are
stripped one by one, and for a moment I wonder why I need so many pillows. They
are a pain in the ass to change. Yet I love my sleeping pillows more than
anything and I don’t share them with anybody. Ever.
I kick the pile
of sheets to the corner of my bedroom and present my bed with crisp, clean
sheets. Bit by bit the bed gets pulled back together and looks presentable. The
squirrelly bottom sheet fights me as I try to stretch it out over the mattress
corners. The bed is so large that I’m making it while climbing all over the
top. The cat decides to jump in on the fun. So now I’ve made my bed with a cat
buried in the covers.
While I do find
that part humorous, the rest is a tedious task I could do without. Then the
age-long debate in my mind rears it’s ugly head again.
I’m not a fan
of making my bed. Never have been. So why
do I do it?
The husband
likes the bed pulled all together and presentable. Presentable for whom? It can’t
be me because I don’t care. It can’t be for the kid because even he doesn’t
make his bed. His room, his mess.
Don’t get me
wrong, if I had all the money in the word and a maid to do it, I’d have crisp,
clean sheets on my bed every day. But since I have neither, I’ll have to deal
with it.
I think it all
stems from my childhood. My mother was insistent on everybody having a made
bed. And “made” meant tucked in and clean lines. Yes, I am capable of doing hospital
corners and bouncing a quarter off the tightly tucked linens, but I don’t do
it.
My mother
prefers the tightly made bed with everything tucked in. She says that she can’t
climb into bed with the sheets rumpled because that’s not the way to go to
sleep. It needs to be welcoming and ready.
For me, as a
child, she used to tuck me in and it was so tight it was like I was in a straightjacket,
but in bed. I couldn’t move.
As an adult, I
cannot sleep in a bed made so tightly. I find that I can’t breathe. I can’t get
comfortable. I feel trapped. I need the loose covers. I need to be able to
move.
When I go to a
hotel, the first thing I do is rip the bed apart. I prefer rumpled. Clean but
rumpled.
I throw the old
sheets in the hamper and look back on my messy creation. There’s a moving lump
on my side of the bed, and a pile of extra blankets piled on the other side of
the bed.
For me the
whole scene looks inviting. Its comfort and happiness. My bed is ready to
loosely hug me and lull me to sleep – giving me space to dream of impossible
things.
I can't wait for bedtime.
PS - Don't let the bedbugs bite!
