During my fourth year of college, I bought a futon to serve as my primary device for horizontal subconscious rejuvenation, otherwise known as sleeping.
I opted for a futon because the room in which I was living was roughly the size of a milk carton, so it was necessary to have compact furniture and a bed that could fold into a couch so I had enough room for other important activities, such as opening my door to get out of my room. Seriously, when my futon was in "bed mode," the door barely opened far enough to squeeze through. Such was the joy of living in a room that was most likely originally contructed to be a closet.
Following that fourth year of college, I continued to use my futon as my primary sleeping device, even though it was no longer necessary to do so in the name of space utilization. Unfortunately, futons of that bygone era six years ago weren't constructed to endure prolonged use in bed mode, so by the second year my futon had a decidedly distressed look to it. The metal frame had started to bend in places and the mattress itself had flattened considerably from the thick man-sized fajita it originally was.
But still I continued to call upon the futon as my sole sleeping source. Even though I could feel the metal frame pushing through the mattress like a "Princess and the Pea" fairy tale (just to clear this up: I am in no way saying I'm a princess; I am, in fact, a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness). I'm not sure why I clung so tenaciously to my beleagured futon. I guess, you know, it's like a good hunting dog: you just can't put it down because it slowed down a little in its old age.
So, for the past six years, I've been sleeping on a rapidly deteriorating futon which, if used for a few months more, would probably be considered a torture device by most world human rights organizations. Still, being the stubborn male hunk that I am, I steadfastly refused to capitulate and buy a bed. Why would I need a new bed when I have this horribly disgusting futon on which to sleep?
Well, as a birthday gift from my parents, they said they'd buy me a bed if it meant I'd finally relinquish my reliance on my aging futon. Given the combination of a bad back due to a broken down futon and the promise of a free new bed, I opted to do a little bed shopping.
Unfortunately, I opted to do bed shopping with my girlfriend in tow. Now, even though my girlfriend would not be the primary user of the new bed, that didn't stop her from promoting beds that best suited her preferences. Whereas I tend to favor harder sleeping surfaces, such as carpet over concrete, my girlfriend tends to favor softer sleeping surfaces that feature more give than a rock thrown into a bucket of mud.
Back and forth we went, with my girlfriend trying out and insisting that beds softer than warm chocolate were the way to go, while I tried to find the hardest bed in the store. She'd convince me to try out one of her human swallowing soft beds, and then I'd convince her to try out one of my oak-hard, spine straighteners. Neither of us liked the others choices.
Clearly, we had reached an impasse. The stalemate was broken, however, when I pointed out that it was MY bed, not hers, and that it was MY birthday present, not hers. Although I think she plainly understood the logic of both points, that didn't stop her from glaring angrily at me in such a way that promised I would be alone in my new hard bed for the foreseeable future.
I've always known that my futon was small when compared to actual beds, but knowing that hardly prepared me for the arrival of my queen-sized purchase. I dragged the broken carcass of the futon into the spare bedroom and made space for the new bed arrival.
Once I had the new bed in place, I was absolutely astonished at the sheer size of the beastly thing. I had purchased Mt. Bederest! It's surface is a full three or more feet off the ground. It requires ropes and grappling hooks just to climb aboard. For my girlfriend, who tends to lean to the shorter end of the species, climbing into bed is practically a workout regimen. She has to rest midway up the bed face to catch her breath and bring up fresh supplies for the rest of the journey upward.
Ultimately, it's a really nice bed, even if it is somewhat large. Still, I sort of miss my futon. I guess after six years of lower back torture, my futon kind of grew on me. Which is appropriate, I guess, because after six years, there are almost certainly parts of me growing on that futon.
Posted by Ryan at March 16, 2004 01:40 PM
Stumble It!
