Let me lay this out–
On the day we moved in to our new place, Greg and I were far too exhausted/tired/lazy to make the bed. So we threw on a mattress pad and hunkered down under our duvet. We said we’d put the sheets on tomorrow.
Except that if you do a slobbish thing once, it’s super easy to do it again.
Greg and I have been sleeping on a bed with no sheets for three weeks. And while the rest of our house is slowly but surely coming together, our bedroom– that place nobody sees but us– looks like a sort of Dickensian hovel– clothes strewn over chairs, shoes and scraps of paper littering the floor, misplaced cords hanging off bedside tables. I found a pair of shoes in the bed that had been there for four nights before I noticed. They weren’t flats– they were cowboy boots.
And last Wednesday, when I laid down to sleep, our bed collapsed to the floor.
I firmly believe that when two consenting adults break a bed together they should have a really fantastic story to go along with it. You know what I’m talking about (and you should know that I winked multiple times while I typed that).
But no, the story is this– I gingerly placed my feminine self into the bed… and that’s it. That’s all it took. I heard splintering wood and a sharp crack before Greg and I both plunged towards the floor. And let me tell you, a six-inch drop, in the dark, at midnight is even more terrifying than you would think. I maybe screamed. And legit thought I was going to die.
But did we rush out to purchase a new bed? Did we repair our current one? Nope.
We’ve been sleeping like this for 7 days. Broken bed. No sheets.
I knew before we moved that we would likely designate a room, at first, to store our junk. But I didn’t think that room would be our bedroom, and our junk would be the bed I sleep on.
Nevertheless, we still sleep, and move on with the rest of our efforts in a house we’re excited about.
We break bed, and give thanks just the same.