I love my bed. It may be the posession I love most in the world.
I spend a good part of each day thinking about when I can next get into my bed and curl up, or stretch out, depending on how chilly I am. The more fatigued I am, the more persistent these thoughts are.
My bed has a history. When T and I moved into our first house, the bed would not fit up the stairs. We had to saw the boxspring in half to get it into the bedroom. For a while, it held with a few screws, then it needed a little support at each end where the cut was. Eventually, it needed to be flat on the floor to prevent a major crevasse, and we got rid of the frame.
Recently, I decided that we needed a grown-up bed, seeing as we were grown up people. But I am too cheap to buy a whole new mattress and boxpring, so we screwed a piece of plywood to the bottom of the mangled boxspring and it has once again become quite functional. We have a real headboard and matching nightstands and everything.
When I worked a lot of night shifts, I longed for my bed the way a starving man fantasizes about food. Some mornings the only thing that got me home from work was the thought of my big, empty bed, just waiting for me. I used to climb in and roll around and say, “I’ve missed you, bed!” (it’s true, ask T). Or on the last morning before a set of nights, I would sigh longingly and tell it when I’d be back, as if it missed me as much. I love my bed so much one might almost accuse me of infdelity.
My bed has healing properties, too. Yesterday I was home from work with a nasty cold. I lounged and snoozed all day, and guess what? My cold is practically gone! And no, it had little to do with chicken soup and sleep… it was all the bed.
My bed has a feather bed on it and a down comforter on top. I have a body pillow and all the pillow cases match (I sleep better when they do, really). Of course I have a fondness for the bed; my husband sleeps there and both my children can trace their origins in its direction. It has also been the scene of several rousing games of Scrabble, buckets of morning coffee, usually delivered by my one and only, and a lot of snuggling, tickling, roughhousing family fun. Plus a few unmentionable moments, needless to say (how could an ode to my bed pass without mentioning the unmentionables?).
I would bet that most people love their beds. Bed is better than your favourite comfort food. It is always comfy, warm, welcoming, and generally pleasant. Even when you feel rotten, your own bed is where you want to be. It’s why our outpatient cancer treatment facility works so well… people do much better when they can go home and feel sick in their own bed than in some cold and sterile hospital room. Comfort increases well-being, which in turn improves health. People recover faster when they are home in their own beds. I wonder if that’s ever been studied. Sounds like a good Master’s thesis to me.
Well, I am off to complete the most basic of household tasks necessary to remain a contributing member of this family before I… well you know… I’m sorry. It’s past my bedtime.