Bedtime

While living in LA I had a large and fluffy pillow-topped queen-sized bed all to myself. I gave it away when we got married because Dave had a queen of his own which we could use after we moved into our own house.

We moved into his parents' house. Dave and I both feel strongly about sleeping autonomy. We want to stretch out. We want to flip around at our whim. We want no touching, and even no almost-touching. That would be too distracting for a good night's sleep. (Once in a while I would stretch out a toe across the vast expanse between us to rest it on his leg so I could know he was there. He would politely inform me that this was too much touching for him. I would understand.) Plus, Pixie likes to cuddle in and she's quite a stretcher-outer too. As his parents' bed was the size of Louisiana, it fit our needs quite well.

I was pretty worried about how we would squash ourselves down into a queen-size after never knowing anything together but this king-sized delight. The other day I saw our new bed for the first time. And it's not a queen. It is a double. A full-size. You might as well call it torture-size.

As I teetered through the night on the edge, smack on my side, Dave kneed me swiftly three times in the buttocks. Dave has pretty strong knees.

Pixie had no choice but to sleep on the floor. Every time Dave rolled over, the bed tossed me into the air like a football. At one point when my toes were hanging off the side and I didn't have room to even roll over, I sat up to see how he was faring. Through no fault of his own, while lying on his stomach he covered 85% of the bed. I contemplated heading for the couch, but instead laid awake, day-dreaming (except it wasn't day) about a king-sized Sleep Number. As soon as it was light out, I raced to the computer to see what they cost. Soooo anyway. We might be taking turns on the couch.