Some time ago I mentioned that I had never purchased a new bed in my life. I know this sounds a bit strange, me being on the flip side of five decades and still not owning a new bed.
That’s not to say I never had a bed. I had one that a dead uncle had once, another that I bought off a pirate friend of mine. I also had a bed that was well beyond being considered a bed; it being so old that it was made in a period of time when they didn’t put padding or fabric over the bottom springs.
I rectified the new bed issue last fall, finally caving in and buying what I thought to be a prohibitively expensive bed from Sleep Country. It was a dozen times more expensive than my first car, and as expensive as the two cars I once owned at the same time.
Sure, I spend more time in the bed than I do in any car, even the Black Widow sitting outside my house as I write this. Still, it seems like an awful lot of money, given that my ancestors used to just roll out a blanket on the hard ground and call it a night as they expanded west.
It’s not like a bed is laden with technology either. Outside of the Sleep Number beds, a basic bed is nothing more than some padding, batting, springs and foam. Even though I plunked down a lot of dough for my new bed, I am more than a little disappointed that there isn’t a jack for my iPhone or a heater to keep my feet from freezing in the dead of winter.
I bought the bed out of desperation. Through events that were at least partially out of my control, the bed that had been in my bedroom moved out one day. I knew it was leaving, but still, I would have appreciated a last goodbye from it. All that was left was the four impressions of its wheels, reminding me of the fact that I had a pretty good bed, even if it wasn’t mine.
To compensate, I went out bed shopping the next weekend. It’s a silly ritual, really. You walk around a store filled with beds when you’re not even tired. You lay down on a couple, then lay down on a couple more, trying all the while to remember which bed you liked and which one you didn’t.
I finally settled on a fairly firm mattress. It arrived a day or two later, filling up my once empty master with the promise of a good night’s sleep. It was a welcome change from the floor, which had certainly not been as welcoming as the bare ground my ancestors enjoyed.
I quickly grew accustomed to my new bed. I even showered it with gifts, a new bedding set, a waterproof mattress cover and a four-inch bamboo topper that made it a little softer.
It moved out eventually as well, but not in the way that the last bed did. It went to Parker’s room. You see, Kat also has a new bed, and it came down to an eeny-meeny-miny-moment to see which bed stayed and which bed moved.
Mine was the obvious choice to relocate. Kat’s bed is really soft and splendid, like sleeping on a passed out drunk without that morning after smell. It seemed like the perfect choice.
Seemed is the operative word here. While the bed is ideal with just a single person in it, it begins to fail in its role when two people climb into it. I can’t really explain exactly what the shortcomings are, but the bed just doesn’t feel right. It’s as if the Pillsbury folks went into the bed business and used the doughboy as its inspiration.
You can now see the Goldilocks Conundrum here. Kat can’t really sleep in my bed; it’s too hard. I can’t really get comfortable in Kat’s bed; it’s too soft. She can’t seem to sleep in it either anymore because I’m in it.
I don’t take this personally, mind you. It’s just what happens when two people fall in love, move in together, and try to find a sleeping arrangement that doesn’t involve one of you on the sofa or a hotel down the street.
Been there, done that. Oh, and I wrote a book on it.
Suffice it to say that we are still working on an answer to the Goldilocks Conundrum that is plaguing 1314 Shoreline. It looks like we have to return to the sleep store and lay on a bunch of beds, trying to imagine what it would be like to sleep night after night in it, all in the space of about three minutes per potential bed.
I can see it now. We will look up at the ceiling, roll around a bit, feel a bit uneasy because I’m sure the salesperson is wondering what we look like naked, and pretend that this exercise in futility will somehow lead us to the magic bed that isn’t too soft, isn’t too hard, and is just right.
We’ll see how this one turns out. The only thing I can be sure of is that the next bed to enter our lives will cost more than the previous two. Before we know it, we’ll be spending more on the bed than the Black Widow is worth, and I’ll once again wonder why beds are so prohibitively expensive.
Even more briefly, I will wonder how we could hoist the Black Widow into the master and just sleep in it. I’ve had some experience with this too, and it wasn’t too bad. Sure, the shifter gets in the way sometimes (put your mind in the gutter if you’d like), but at least the Widow is paid for.
I’m not sure the new bed will ever be better than the beds that have come before it, but I will continue to be optimistic that this next bed, Bed #3 in the line, will be just right.
In the Emerald City, dreaming of a dreamy bed, but not losing sleep over it (this is a lie),
– Robb