The bed’s too big

When we’re staying here in the rental house, I think of Joni Mitchell’s song “My Old Man“: But when he’s gone, me and those lonesome blues collide, the bed’s too big, the frying pan’s too wide…

Even when my old man’s here, the bed’s too big. And too wide. Because it’s a king, not a queen.

I just don’t like king-sized beds. It’s too much like sleeping alone.

I’m adrift in an ocean of sheets. Like I have to get on a ship to find Tom. Or worse, like I’m lost at sea and don’t know my way home to him.

We’re so far apart that I don’t know who’s there with me in bed. Could be anybody. Could be nobody.

I can’t just reach out my hand or my foot or my leg and touch him; he’s too far away. I wouldn’t know if he’s dead, or if had gone and left me. These are things that my poor brain doesn’t need to be worrying about in the middle of the night.

If I kick off the blankets I can never find them again without getting out of bed. If the blanket’s skewed, I have to pull and pull to find the edge of it. I don’t know where the end of the bed is. I grope for miles to find the nightstand or anything on it.

There is such a thing as too much space, too much room. Like the rental house itself. A lot of room, must be close to 4,000 square feet, far more room than we need. It’s not a problem for just a few months, nice to have room to sprawl, but owning that much house – phew. So much more to clean, maintain, heat, cool… and the more space you have, the more junk you buy to fill it.

I’ve loved Azalea for the open floor plan – with just 2,100 square feet, Tom and I can echo-locate, like dolphins. We can always find each other.

And so it is with a queen-sized bed. I always know where Tom is, even when I’m asleep. He’s within easy reach.

I can always find him without sailing in the darkness on the waves.

Today’s penny is a 2014. That’s the year we bought the queen bed for the condo. Didn’t even look at king-sized.