When The Ex and I divorced, I afforded myself one luxury: the perfect bed, the perfect bedding. Our bed life (as opposed to our sex life) had been a microcosm of all that was wrong between us. He, a hot weather lover, preferred a warm room and no top sheets. I’m completely opposite: give me a cold room and piles of blankets to snuggle under, with only my nose peeking out. The word “piles” is important: I adore layer upon layer of sheets, blankets and a fluffy comforter adding up to the perfect weight.
All night long The Ex and I would play a push-pull game with the covers: He’d push them off, I’d pull them up. The ceiling fan was our only compromise: it allowed him to keep the room warm, but gave me the illusion of coolness through air movement.
And the bed itself: too old, too lumpy, too big. It had been suitable when we were co-sleeping with our children, but with them dispatched to their own rooms, the size itself served to remind us of all we did not share.
I spent too many nights – years’ worth – hugging the extreme edge of that gigantic king-sized bed, being hyper-vigilant about not touching The Ex, tossing about uncomfortably sheetless. Those were what I called the lost years. I’m still not sure how I functioned through them, surviving on so much unhappiness and so little sleep.
When I moved, I decided upon a queen-sized bed for myself, comfortable for solo sleeping but large enough, should someone join me in my bed one day, to share with little room for escape. I was determined that no one would be invited into my bed unless they intended to sleep close by my side. No more edge-hugging for me, ever.
This weekend my love arrived for a too-brief visit. My room was chilly: not icy-cold, but blanket-perfect. My bed coverings were soft, warm, layered. When my love joined me in my bed, he burrowed in, warming his hands on me as I warmed mine on him, pulling me so close that our hearts beat as one, we breathed as one, we moved as one.
We embraced rapturously and passionately, intertwined in the center of my bed, buried beneath mounds of covers, delighting in our explorations, always touching, always close.
He was my bed’s missing piece, my ideal partner…sharing, giving, playful, ardent, tender….the perfect weight, the perfect balance. And now my bed has been forever transformed into my perfect place, a place finally christened as I’d dreamed and hoped, infused with love and passion, happiness, joy and sweet, sweet memories.
Bed perfection at last.