I am forty-five years old, and I just bought my first bed.
I have had mattresses before, and futons, and couches and vans and floors and many other sleeping places of varying comfort, but this is my first actual bed.
Most of my life has been rather nomadic, and therefore I never picked up much furniture. Whatever furniture I accumulated would eventually disappear in some subsequent downsizing. When I moved into my present apartment, my bedroom furniture consisted of my file cabinet and an air mattress. And that was as it remained for a year.
I meant to buy a bed, to make a room, but I kept putting it off. What is the point, I thought, if I just pick up roots once again and have to lighten my load? Was I ready to actually make a home? Was it time to actually accept that maybe, just maybe, I might be sticking around here for a while?
Then about six months ago, I met someone special, and I stopped thinking about making my home. After all, if this worked out, we’d eventually move in together, and I’d have to leave my apartment, so what’s the point? Instead I started thinking of ways to improve her home, like buying her a hanging wall garden. But that relationship ended a little over a month ago, and I realized it was truly time to make my bedroom, to make my home.
I found a corner shelf at a Goodwill, decorated it and painted it and covered it with snow globes. I bought a lamp. I bought new mattresses, and I bought a bed. A big one, solid pine with some metal work. Got it at a consignment shop for only 120 bucks, it has a few scratches, but it still looks and works good. Now I understand the difference between getting up out of bed and rolling out of bed.
Today I bought some blue and black paint. The walls, that’s the next step. Then I’m going to buy my first work of art from someone (I already have ideas), and put it on the wall.
I am forty-five years old, and it’s time to make a home. At least for a little while.