Each of the beds I have occupied were either handed over, under or down. In my mid-teens, I graduated from a single bed of unknown origin to a full that had previously serviced the guest room. As for the history of that bed, I have no idea; but a move to the guest room is surely a demotion in the life of any mattress.
|Serta sales representative|
Then one day while blinking at the ceiling next to my dearly beloved, the extent of the sunken depression that cradled our bodies moved me to action.
"Honey," I said, "let's change out our bed with the guest room bed."
|Portable Serta representative|
Um, okay. Sure. Thanks. And the Goat and I did deliver unto that bed twelve more years of experience.
|Detail from Judy O'Brien's original Jane Avril quilt, which now graces Lil' OB's bed.|
Now for a sidebar: Save for one uniquely stunning bed ensemble that was inspired by Toulouse-Lautrec's muse Jane Avril, and that my mother designed and hand stitched, all of the bed linens associated with this sad, sad tale were (of course) mismatched, handed-down, purchased on sale, or from the "seconds" bin.
Cut to a few weeks ago. Once again, I lay blinking at the ceiling next to my splendid king. Wrapped in threadbare sheets and pilled blankets, our bodies were barely suspended by the beleaguered and creaky springs beneath us.
"Honey," I said at the advance age of 46 and with nearly 20 years of marriage behind me, "we're buying a new bed." He didn't argue.
|New bed of Goat and humble hostess as displayed by portable Serta representative|
Enter karma, six degrees of separation gone bad, kismet, irony, poetic justice, or whatever you want to call it; sometimes just desserts come in blossoms of two: one white, one black. For I surely deserved that lovely new bed and all the trimmings, but did I deserve what comes next? Let the reader decide.
The lush bed that moved the Goat and me as we lay upon it in the showroom in our jeans and coats,with my head resting on his torso and the saleswoman giggling at my quips, comes by way of my sworn enemy. Must I type his name? No matter, I shan't.
Behold the acrimonious details of our relationship at your own risk.
Sleeping with the enemy indeed.
|Woeful label detail from humble hostess's new mattress|