Over the many years I have called earth my home, I have lived many places. I think according to a recent RobZerrvation, I have lived in more than 20 different homes, apartments and condos over the years.
Amazingly enough, I have never gone bed shopping. That’s not to say that I haven’t slept in some fabulous beds – Tempur-Pedic, Sleep Number, Sealy, Simmons – I’ve just never owned one.
This fact only occurred to me a few days ago when the subject of bed shopping came up. I remarked to a friend that I have never been bed shopping. The quizzical look on her face was priceless. I could see how she was wondering how this could possibly be so.
The story is an odd one to be sure. It’s not like I ever set out to never own a new bed. That would be a really odd life goal. I know I have some pretty odd goals, but even that one would be too far out there for me.
When I was growing up, I had a bunk bed in my room. I’m sure the mattress was never new. I don’t think anything in my house was ever new, at least by the time I came along at the end of the child bearing and rearing years. Then there’s the time I spent a couple years on the couch when I was growing up, which prepared me well for my married years. Little did I know that the couch and I would become very close friends at various times in my adult life as peace and quiet evaded me in the proverbial martial sack.
My first married bed was a hide-a-bed. Sleeping next to my wife at the time was a very uncomfortable experience. So was the bed. I have never owned one since. Though it’s hard to believe, even I have standards.
From there, I fell into a sea of relationships where the woman always seemed to have a better bed than I ever could. I remember well the first post-marital bed. It was my first waterbed. It took me a while to get used to getting in and out of it. Often, I would have to wait for my mate to roll over, then I could catch the wave and bounce over an up in a single motion.
I would revisit the waterbed again down the road when Psycho came to town. I wasn’t so sure that the floor of our apartment in West Seattle would hold the thing. As I filled it up, I could hear the joists creaking. We had to go with the waterbed instead of mine as a queen bed wouldn’t fit up the stairwell.
Yes, I said my bed. It wasn’t a new bed, however. It was a hand me down from my pirate friend Black Bart. It had a regular box spring but an all-foam top that was definitely not made of space age materials. But still, it was a bed, my bed. I had purchased it from him during the time I was briefly homeless and was moving to new digs in West Seattle. I didn’t have a bed in the apartment and wasn’t making enough money to buy a new bed. His didn’t come with a bed frame even, so initially the box spring sat on the floor. It was a bit of a challenge climbing out of bed in the morning. I felt like I was at a Japanese restaurant, trying to get up from the table. Eventually, I couldn’t take it any longer and got a bed frame at Goodwill.
I didn’t have to endure the second waterbed for long. As well documented, Psycho was really psycho so I ended up moving into the guest room permanently. I still couldn’t get my queen sized bed up the stairwell so I had to make due with a bed my friend Weaver had given me. It was in pretty sad shape. The springs were so old that they didn’t even cover them with fabric then. It was really creaky too, in a rusty kind of way.
That lasted until I got married again. Sharon had a nice bed. It had belonged to a dead guy, true, but it was a very nice bed with a pillow top. To be truthful, the guy (her uncle) didn’t die in the bed. But he was a chain smoker and that bed smelled to high heaven. I can attest that three bottles of Febreeze can remove the odor from anything on this earth.
My last bed in Washington was the office floor. I had been ousted from the homestead and so none of the beds in the house were offered up as an option for me to either sleep or keep. Luckily, sleeping on a floor presented no problems, though I do wish I had taken a pillow with me. Next time, I told myself. Pillow!
When I moved to Florida, I didn’t have a bed again. But Michelle did. Neither the house, the bed or the marriage were big enough for the both of us, so eventually I moved out of the master bedroom and into the guest room. It had a futon we had jointly purchased during this Titanic of a relationship we called a marriage.
It came with me to Vero Beach some months later. It never made it into the bedroom though. For the entire year I had my apartment in Vero, the master was empty, except for my dresser, a bookcase and my bicycle. I had always planned to get a bed for the room, but I never slept there once. Seems someone else had a nicer bed.
Geez, I suddenly realize I sound a lot like Goldilocks here. This bed’s too soft, this bed’s too watery, this bed’s just right.
Well, at least I know how to make my own porridge.
Out on the Treasure Coast with my 1600 count sheets for the bed I hope to own one day,
– Robb