Our bed is the most comfortable spot in the entire world. I think I might have mentioned that before. But for most of my adult life, bedtime was not the oasis it is now.
It all started with a very questionable college dorm bed. My roommate and I were given stacked bunk beds that had weird stains on the mattresses and crass graffiti scribbled in Sharpie on the frame. Because I was slightly less terrified of rolling off the top bunk than she was, I got stuck on top. We agreed that we would swap after the first semester, but by the time that came around, I had gotten used to sleeping perfectly still so I wouldn't roll anywhere. Like a vampire.
My roommate duct-taped a sheet to the underside of the frame so she wouldn't have to read about other people doing the horizontal mambo in her bed. Gross.
When we got our own apartment after freshman year, I knew the full-size mattress I had in high school would never fit in my little bedroom along with my desk and dresser and a bunch of other gigantic furniture that I got as a hand-me-down from my aunt. We didn't have any smaller mattresses, but since my aunt buys furniture like most people buy clothes, of course she had a twin-sized mattress. Two of them, in fact. But no box spring. So when I needed a bed for my apartment, we hauled the mattresses up to Oklahoma and I stacked them one on top of the other, and that was my bed for three years.
Stacked mattresses on the floor + a stacked headboard and footboard = a very low daybed. I don't have any better pictures of my room, which is weird.
When I graduated and my mom saw the twin mattresses I was planning to haul down to my new home in College Station, she was appalled. Because there was no box spring with which to let the mattresses breathe — and we had a very ill cat that wouldn't bathe himself that liked to sleep on them — the mattresses didn't smell all that good anymore, and my mom insisted on tossing them. But instead of leaving me bed-less, this gave my mom an opportunity to buy HERSELF a new mattress. So she gave me the king-sized one that she and my dad had been sleeping on for the previous 20 years. It was saggy and sunken from decades of use. But beggars can't be choosers, and I didn't want to sleep on the floor.
My first grown-up bedroom.
I finally gave it away when I got married, because my parents generously gifted us our very own brand-new mattress for our wedding. A Sleep Number bed. My side is soft and fluffy and perfect for sinking down into. I love waking up on weekend mornings and laying in bed reading, unwilling to get up from its pillowy embrace. It is the best bed in the world.
Now my sister's college roommate owns that ridiculously old king-size.
Bed sweet bed. (You can tell this picture is old because my book stack isn't there yet. It's practically to the ceiling now.)
Does your family pass furniture from person to person? What's the best (or worst) bed you've ever slept on?