Over this past weekend, I put aside my tiny twin bed and got a proper, full-sized one. An event that fully slammed the door on my childhood. The twin bed, now wrapped in layers of plastic and living in the basement, had been my bed since I was a little girl. It was the place of solitude and quiet where I would go to daydream, read, write, and wistfully stare at pictures of a young George Harrison. It was sad to say goodbye.
But in the days after getting a proper adult bed, I’ve been acting more child-like than usual. My new bed is really big, and all that room makes me outlandishly giddy. I’ve jumped on it, taken naps on it at all angels (my favorite: the diagonal nap), burrowed under the covers and read a book with a flashlight. I’ve even let myself sleep in because, OMG, memory foam and my sleeping body really get along. The support is an irresistible combination of firm and soft. It’s like being cuddled by a muscly Scotsman as he whispers the most heartwarming C.S. Lewis quotes in your ear. Yeah. Solid bliss, right?
Perhaps this childish behavior is my way of vainly grasping at the last physical reminders of my childhood—that could definitely be the case, but, there is too much joy and not enough shrill self-denial to make me worry. As hard as it was to say goodbye to my childhood bed, I’m happy that a bigger bed gives me more space in which to take refuge. Plus, there’s not enough room for an adult to take a diagonal nap on a twin bed.