In the grand scheme of things, 16 inches is not a lot. It’s the approximate width of the laptop I’m typing on currently, adequate for these man-hands of mine, but not that impressive in size. 16 inches is the difference between a king-sized bed and a queen-sized bed. I had a queen-sized bed throughout most of my adult life. I believe we purchased one after I married and moved back from upstate New York. I had one when I was on my own and going through my internet phase in my early forties, up until I decided that I wanted to try and make John the Pilot a real boy. Yes, that was my fatal mistake, I took my play thing and tried to turn him into a real relationship, something I will never do again.
About ten years ago, after John and I had enjoyed a nice meal of meat at one of those Brazilian restaurants, I suggested that we stop at a mattress store. TMI Gail explained to the salesman that John had been spending more time at my home and I felt it was time to move up from a queen to a king to accommodate our lifestyle. I bought one on the spot and slowly, but surely, John became a fixture in my home. A king-sized bed allowed us to have fun in the middle and then retreat to our separate sides to enjoy a good night’s sleep on our different schedules.
What I didn’t realize, at the time, was that he was going downstairs to chat with the other woman while I lay in peaceful slumber, but you already knew that. Yes, 16 inches allowed us to live our separate lives without me being any the wiser. I was content to be, not married, but had a man who came home to me, unknowingly sharing a man that wasn’t whom I thought he was, not even remotely. If you’re confused at this moment of my little story, I highly recommend that you go back to the beginning of my humble blog and catch up. Yes, in a nutshell, I spent nine years of my life in ignorant bliss and then one night, I did not.
16 inches allowed me to live the lie I chose to live with for approximately 4 years. 5 years ago, the lie I was living met the light of day, but I continued to sleep in the king-sized bed. I tried several times during the first year of my singlehood to fill that space with someone who could meet my demands of a relationship, but that proved to be futile and so, I have slept alone, for the past 4 years, in a king-sized bed. The sprawling space of that extra 16 inches seemed appropriate for a woman of my size to inhabit, but as of late, I began to realize that the age of the mattress may be part of the cause of my physical turmoil.
I have the medical documentation to support my ailments, but deep in the darkest recesses of my mind, I know that the pain I’ve been experiencing is not simply physical. My mind is a very dangerous thing and I know how powerful my thoughts are, how they twist and turn my spine and other parts of my body, simply to torture me, for who knows what reason. Yet another subject to approach with my therapist.
I had been home in excruciating pain, watching videos on stretches to possibly elevate some of it, when a question was posed that I had never even remotely queried for myself, “How old is your mattress?” Huh, well, let me think. I’d say about ten years and yes, I do believe I have been becoming a voluntary human taco while lying in this decade old bed. Could this possibly be, at least part of the reason, I’ve been experiencing this detrimental back pain? It was, at least, something to consider. So, I decided to sleep in my guest room that housed the queen-sized bed that I had slept upon previously. Yes, it was older than the king-sized bed, but it hadn’t been used on a nightly basis in that same amount of time. I noted an improvement in my back health. Just to be certain, and since I am a bit of a masochist, I returned to king-sized bed to see how well my back endured the experience. It wasn’t a science-based experiment, but I concluded that the bed had to go.
I battled with the idea of spending the money on a new bed. Should I just move the queen from the guest room and buy something cheap for there, or should I spend the money and buy myself a new “good” queen-sized bed for myself? Of course, along with that purchase would be new sheets, new pillows, and then the obligatory bed skirt and I almost forgot, the new mattress protection cover! This was turning into a financial bonanza, but the reality was, I was loving it! I deserve this, don’t I? I mean, after all that I have endured in the past 5 years of recovering from the grief of the future I thought I would have? Yes, indeed, I deserve to spend the money on my own comfort.
What I forgot to mention is that this had also been a source of shopping therapy for all that has been going on in my life since September 18th, you know, the stuffs I’m not supposed to be sharing just yet, but the “soon to come” bullshit of my life. So, I spent the money, ordered the bed and all that goes with it, but that wasn’t enough. Oh no, I had to clean the room I’ve been living in for the past 5 years without moving furniture, without dusting and cleaning like a “normal” person would.
The bed was ordered and scheduled to arrive on the day I finally took the time to clean. Shamefully, I moved furniture and began to remove the years of filth I had blindly been living with for at least 5 years. Thick black walls of dust bunnies to remove, years of neglect to be exposed to the light of day and only hours to remove it all before the new bed arrived. Oh, the embarrassment of it all, years of building filth, the denial and self-deprecation to remove before the delivery men could see what a hopeless basket case of a human being, I had allowed myself to become. And then, and then, when they arrived, the self-realization that I wasn’t prepared for the new mattress because the bed frame I had, the one that the salesman had told me that should be adjustable, wasn’t.
I tipped the delivery men and sent them on their way. I looked in the bathroom mirror and plucked the dust bunnies from my hair, showered off a layer or two of filth and made my way to the mattress store to buy the necessary frame to properly house my new queen-sized mattresses. Along the way, I spied a food truck, not just any ordinary food truck, but a pierogi food truck! I made plans to hit that bitch on the way back, and I did. I will not lie and state that they were the best pierogi I’ve ever had, but they were life altering in the way that I allowed myself to stop, indulge and feel like me, the me I was before I allowed John the Pilot to enter my life and turn myself into a shadow of whom I was before all the games began. Yes, pierogies can be that powerful and if you do not understand what I speak of, I pity you.
I made it home, I moved the furniture, by myself, I dressed the bed with all the new fineries I had purchased, by myself, and I realized that now, now that there were 16 inches of less bed to contend with, I had room for the MCM Slipper Chair I had rescued from the alley months ago. The one that I had received estimates of $1,000 to refinish and reupholster, the one that I felt I could fix up well enough on my own without spending $1,000, yes, that chair. The one I drove by for 3 days before I decided, “Lord knows I do not need another chair in my life, but if it fits in the car, it’s mine!” Yes, that’s the chair I somehow managed to carry up the basement stairs, up the stairs to the second floor, and into my bedroom where there now resides, 16 inches of extra space because I found the strength to let go of the king-sized bed, I used to share with the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, but turned out to be all a lie. Yeah, I did that!!! And, if I can do that, I will make it through the next chapter of my life where I will find a way to live happily ever after, on my own. Because, I do have the strength and courage to realize when I’ve made a terribly mistake, and move on. 16 inches is huge, it’s enormous and just enough, all at the same time, for me, all by myself to be fine.
#thelieswechoosetolivewith
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