Earl and I have lived together for nearly 11 years. In that time we have had two beds. The first bed was Earl’s queen sized bed from his wild days, a hand-me down from his oldest sister. While quite functional, we opted to buy a new bed when we moved into the new house in 2003 and did the proper thing with the old bed, we gave it to his brother Rick. When we spend the night visiting his family, we usually stay with Rick and Helen and sleep in our old bed. My butt still fits and my leg surrounds the springs like it was yesterday.
It’s familiar and comfy.
When we first slept on the new, king sized bed, it felt foreign. It wasn’t all worked in like a hotel bed, it was shiny and firm and new and felt like we were sleeping on something that bent our backs in the wrong direction. After a few weeks and a few rides on the bed, it finally felt familiar.
This feeling didn’t last as long as I thought a new bed should.
I’ve played by the rules. Every three months I turn, rotate, flip, spindle and attempt not to mutilate the mattress as directed by the wise sage at Raymour and Flanigan. Sometimes I achieve this feat alone. Do you know how hard it is to turn, rotate, flip, spindle and attempt to to mutilate a king sized mattress alone? It’s a daring feat, what with the threat of the mattress falling out the window, scaring the cat and/or falling on me while I plea “help me, help me” in a pitiful voice. But the wise sage said you had to do this to the mattress, so I did.
When you look at a picture of Earl and I, you may notice that while we were are two bear sized guys, I’m a little smaller than he is. Can someone please explain to me why I have the bigger, deeper crevice in the mattress? Regardless of which way the mattress has been turned, rotated, flipped, spindled and hopefully not mutilated, there I am lying approximately one foot average sea level lower than Earl.
I have affectionately named this crevice “The Ditch”.
“Sweetheart, it’s time to get up!”, comes the voice from above, as he peers down into the ditch prompting the serfs out of slumber. “The cat says it’s time for tuna.”
I tell the cat to “go tell it on the mountain.” I have noticed that while Earl does have a smaller version of The Ditch on his side of the bed, mine is deeper and stretches from sea to shining sea. I like to think that the cat sleeps on the Continental Divide between us.
Truth be told, I guess I wouldn’t have it any other way.