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When the stb-ex left, so too left the bed in which we’d spent all but a few months of married life. I was glad to see it go. It was a bulky monstrosity that no longer fit either my tastes or my heart.
The comforter, however, remained behind.
Since then I’ve been snoozing on a twin bed, a left-over from my parents’ house that is nearly as old as I am. The mattress bears the weight of three decades of my sibling’s slumber, and because it’s a bed without a box spring, the mattress is even more decrepit than its considerable years suggest.
It’s not a comfortable sleeping arrangement. I flip the mattress every time I change the sheets. That helps a little, but there’s nothing that’s going to heal this sad mattress. It yearns, I believe, for rest amongst its brethren.
I could spring for a cheap new mattress for the bed, but that would be only a temporary solution. I certainly don’t want to sleep out the rest of my life on a twin bed, even a twin bed with a better mattress.
My parents, God bless ‘em, have offered repeatedly to gift me a new bed, a better bed, a bigger bed. So far I have turned down their offers. They don’t understand my reluctance. I’m not sure I do either. But I cannot let my parents buy my new bed.
At some point I want to have my act together enough that I can march into a store and choose a bed all for myself. I want to pay for it with my own dollars. I want no one’s opinion going into its selection but my own. I want it to be my dream bed.
Even though right now I cannot afford to buy it and in fact I cannot even imagine what it will look like, I want that bed to be mine.
I want it to be a symbol; I want it to be more than just a bed. I’m not exactly sure what it will be symbolic of, but I’m pretty certain that my parents shouldn’t be attached even monetarily to that symbol.

Monet Lingerie, Sexy Lingerie and Stiletto Heels
