Growing up, I had a captain's bed. This was a mattress only, on a raised platform with drawer storage underneath. These beds were based on actual shipboard models where space was a premium. As a result, the overall dimensions are even smaller than a twin mattress.
During my college years and immediately after, all the dorms and apartments I lived in came with twin-size beds. Technically it was an upgrade, but not by much. The coolest of these was in an efficiency I had in Birmingham. The apartment itself was built into one of the hills overlooking the city. I loved electrical storms that rolled through at night. Sitting in the doorway and enjoying the light show arcing above the cityscape made it seem like I had a really big theater room. Which was cool, because the place was tiny - no more than 10' by 20'.
Everything was scaled down - a small kitchenette, a single cafe table and chair, a single low dresser, and the murphy bed. I wasn't hurting for space as these were my minimalist years. I could pack most of my belongings into a single seabag. But still, I really appreciated the ability to tilt an entire mattress and boxsprings into the wall.
After Andrea and I were engaged, I realized a twin wasn't going to cut it. My next apartment included my very first grownup purchase using credit - a queen mattress and boxsprings. The first night I slept in it, I thought, "Holy crap! There's enough space to host an Olympic decathlon!" There was so much more real estate than I'd ever had, I didn't know what to do with it. Do I sleep on one side or the other? The middle? Maybe even diagonally?
Silly me. I needn't have bothered. After marriage, this was decided for me. You could be forgiven for thinking the line of demarcation of the marital bed ran down the middle. I assure you it does not.
I can't tell you how many times I've woken up with cramped toes and fingers. They were subconsciously gripping the sheets as I was precariously balanced on the edge of the mattress - kinda like a curious rock formation teetering at the edge of a cliff.
Recently, Andrea introduced something new to the mix - a weighted blanket. The first time I saw ads for these I kinda chortled, "Who would buy such a thing?" The redhead, that's who. The Amazon driver must have been cussing us as she toted this particular package up our driveway as the thing weighs 20 freakin' pounds! As Andrea thrashes the blanket around in the middle of the night, I'm continuously getting pummeled. The next day gives me a curious look and scrunches her nose. "Did you hit yourself recently?"
"What? No! Why?"
"Hmph. You've got a bruise on the bridge of your nose."
Hmph, indeed. I imagine getting smacked in the face with a 20-pound weight would leave a mark. Now, even more so, I find myself constrained to the narrow, continuously contested strip of "Wayneland" lest I get walloped by a bloody blanket.
Maybe I'll pull the trigger on a king-size mattress. I may actually be able to lie flat on my back again without getting a black eye.
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