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I’ve assembled a pile of savings, gifts, dimes from betwixt the sofa cushions, and a renegotiated tax refund. Added together, these sums will allow me finally to shore up my decrepit sleeping arrangements.
While I’m irrationally excited about having a big-girl bed all of my own, I’m having a hard time choosing the actual set up. The options are close to limitless, and since I didn’t allow myself to think too much about this choice before I amassed the cash, I’m now stuck with flaming hot dollars in my pocket and no clue what to do with them.
I could purchase a mattress, box spring and plain metal frame, then create some sort of artsy headboard. A metal screen hung on the wall above the bed? Interesting fabric draped from the ceiling? A couple photos? A string curtain*?
Foregoing a bed would let me choose a better mattress set, but the drawback would be lack of stability. I could, however, make this solution work for a while, until such a time as I’ve gathered up a few more dimes from between the sofa cushions.
Or I could spend less on the mattress set and get an actual bed to go with it. Once again, I am dizzied by the options. With a mind to lay hands upon some of those possibilities, I herded by small family into a local furniture store the other day. “We should get a bunk bed, Mommy,” my eldest told me, scampering up to the top level of a particularly winsome model. “I’ll sleep on the top and you can sleep on the bottom.”
“You’re going to need privacy, baby,” I pointed out. She shook her head. “No? Well mommy’s going to need privacy. Let’s keep looking.”
When we ran across a salesman, I struggled to find words that would explain what I was looking for. I wanted to tell him that I was recently divorced, wholeheartedly enjoying sex, and in search of a bed that wouldn’t fall to pieces after a few years of rambunctious friskiness. “I want something that will last the rest of my life,” I finally managed to say. “I don’t want it to be flimsy.”
“Ah, you want a bed built like a tank,” he said, marching me toward the back of the store. I assume he’s dealt with vigorous fuckers before. “Built like a tank” must be furniture-guy speak for “fuckproof.”
The bed he showed me certainly seemed fuckproof. But it also exceeded my budget by a very large factor. If I were going to step that far outside of my price range, I’d spring for this bed — and the slave to go with it.
My mind bogs down as I run through these choices; eventually the guilt sets in. Do I really need a bed? Wouldn’t it be wiser to use the cash for some project that would add resale value to the house? Or save it for the day the roof goes out? Or the furnace? Or my back? Even though I already have an emergency savings account?
“Make a choice,” I can hear you thinking. “Quit practicing your neuroses on the blasted bed and just buy one. And then fuck in it. And then write about it! We want to hear about the fucking, not the angst!”
To speed along this decision, I submit it to you as a vote. Vote at will, and leave comments elaborating on your choice. I may or may not actually follow the advice given, but it just might move me out of my present inertia.
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*Whoa, it just occurred to me what my son would do to a string curtain. Cross that choice off the list!



