I know how to make a bed correctly. Hospital corners and all. Though you wouldn’t know it if you walked into my bedroom right now.
I can imagine a third party walking in and tsking that I wasn’t taught properly. I grimace when I imagine what Martha Stewart would think seeing the flat sheet overhanging the outside border of the comforter and grazing the dust ruffle at the corners. For the record, I made my bed sublimely for many years – until I started to share it.
At a little over six feet tall, even in a large bed, my husband is boxed in. He is also a somewhat violent sleeper – I have witnessed many an orca-jumping-out-of-ocean-and spinning movement whilst he tried to dislodge himself from sheets as he slept. The first three or four hundred times he would climb into the bed I had made, he would kick the sheets out from where they were folded like a crazed karate master.
We also diverge in our belief in pillows. I adore them. Not scratchy ones or bedazzled orbs that you can’t squish: those atrocities need not apply. I love a juicy pillow to smoosh in addition to the neat stack that I like to have under the entire top third of my body. When I was pregnant the pillow situation was far worse… My husband protested when I finally replaced his two anemic pillows that he “had just broken in” – they were nearly threadbare and felt like an enormous bag of jumbo cotton balls. (He would probably counter this by saying I prefer a texture somewhere in between a brick and bag of wet sand).
I made the bed this morning, repeating movements I have made every day – sometimes more than once, for years since my acclimation to doing it this way. In the beginning I felt like I was doing this for him – leaving that flapping flat sheet so that his feet wouldn’t feel stuck. But I am doing it for me too. I like the composition of our bed – and our life together. It is a compromise of too many pillows and an extra blanket on one side and that undoneness that is concealed but I know is pooling at the footboard and it feels like us.