Holding Steady


I feel as though I am in a bit of a holding pattern.  Nothing really happening for the next two weeks.  I am just expected to show up at work and do my job.  I will be couch surfing for two more weeks.

Then, my new place.

Oh, I am so looking forward to being in my own space.  I am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, with my own bedding.  This last couple of weeks of being on a couch has really made me come to appreciate my bed.  I miss my bed.  I miss my own sheets and blankets and quilts and pillows.  I do. I do.

A bed is a very important thing to have.  A grown up bed with a mattress and a box spring.  A bed to call my own.  I have had many places where I have slept, but few that have been legitimately mine.

I have had mattresses on the floor, best friends old futon frames, couch cushions, sleeping bags, egg-shell foam, flattened cardboard boxes, plywood sheets, back seats of cars.  I have slept in some pretty uncomfortable places on and on some fairly uncomfortable things.

I dream of a really nice bed.

Sometimes I will still catch myself fantasizing about  a place or a thing, people, not so much anymore.  Even men, I don’t find myself fantasizing about the boys either.  But a good bed?  That is a bird of another feather.

A good bed needs to be at least full size.  I honestly have never had a queen or a king and would not know what to do with all that space.  Perhaps if I were in a relationship it would be applicable.  I tend to sleep on “my” side of the bed, even when there is no one else in the bed I don’t really sprawl out.

I don’t know if this is old habit from childhood, sleeping with my sister.  Or from the one long-term relationship I was in, five years.  But for whatever reason, I tend to sleep on the left side of the bed and the right stays empty.  Maybe I am holding space for the One?

A good bed should also have very clean cotton sheets, with a thread count of at least 400.  And could I let myself splurge I would definitely get sheets that have a higher thread count than that.  But absolutely no polyester, no cotton blends, and no silk.  I don’t like slippery sheets.  Also, no flannel.  There’s something weird to my skin about flannel sheets.  Yeah, I know, they’re warm or something, but they don’t feel right.

There is just something so good and right about getting into a bed with fresh sheets on it.  I don’t tuck them in either, my feet like the option of “breathing”.  I don’t want to be corralled into my bed.

Then a good soft fleece type blanket and a heavy quilt.  I prefer quilts to comforters.  I have a hard time with down comforters as I get to warm under them.  It I am too hot I cannot sleep.  I love the weight of a good quilt and occasionally when I am feeling crafty, which is not all that often, I do entertain the idea of making a quilt.  I think it might be good fun.

But then I sometimes have queer ideas of fun.

Next, pillows.  Not too firm, not too soft, and at least four of them.  Not that I sleep with four, but they just look better on the bed that way.  I sleep with two.  More’s too much, less too little, two is perfect.  I actually get to buy new pillows when I move into my room and I am excited about that.  I may also up date my sheets.  I have a nice set, but not a great set.

And two sets would be nice.  I change my sheets once a week.  Mandatory.  Nothing is yuckier than dirty sheets.  I remember my sister hated making her bed and washing her sheets and once I caught her sweeping off her bed!  Ah, no thanks.

In fact, I used to scent my sheets with my favorite perfume.  I found it decadent and divinely delicious to crawl into my bed and be enveloped in scent.  I don’t often do that.  But I do wash my sheets in nice detergent–Mrs. Meyers and I use nice dryer sheets–so they do have a cozy pleasant smell to them.

I am a scent person.  I like a nice candle to be burning in my room pretty much whenever I am in it and I like pretty scents enveloping me when I go to sleep.  I should perhaps qualify that even more, I like sensual things.  Those things that are pleasant to my senses.  And I do them for me more than I do them for anyone I might be entertaining, friend or lover.

I like soft light, candle light, yellow, peachy light.  I like nice warm smells–not musky, but warm, spicy–cinnamon, cloves, bergamot, vertiver, vanilla, they are almost bright smells to me, but not citrus sharp.  I like smells that have a round edge to them not a square sharp edge.

Then there must be nice things to look at from my bed.  Art, evocative pictures, landscapes, things that my eye can rest on and be pleased with.  I don’t know how to describe it or why it happens, but there are patterns of color that please me more so than others and palettes that I prefer.

I like creamy colors and dulcet tones.  I like sepia.  I like dusky browns and warm greys.  Softly shaded purples, lilacs, and lavender.  I like sage greens and egg-shell blues.  I like shabby chic,  but I like a little edginess to it.  I don’t want my home to look like a store.  Which is how it was described once and I found that off-putting.

The bed is the center piece, the middle of it all, the island in my ocean of calm.  It is where I make my nest.  My current bed is the best bed I have had in a while.  But a secret, the box spring is really crappy and the mattress I bought second-hand off of craigslist.

Granted it was very gently used, but I have never had a new mattress and box spring.  Still, all in all, my bed is gently beckoning to me.  I can see it made up warmly in my old quilt with the corduroy patches in cream, navy, deep purple, and sage with big pillows propped upon it, my bed side tables flanking it and two old-fashioned metal lamps on either side throwing puddles of creamy yellow light onto the floor.

To sleep, perchance to dream, to curl warm and soft into my bed in my own room.

That will keep me buoyed up for the next two weeks like nothing else I can imagine.

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