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The Truth Arrived Underneath the Door

I sleep in a Queen sized bed. It sits there like that sentence, useless really when you are single. I mean, I’m not complaining, it’s a great bed. Fabulously comfortable, a Princely bed even though it’s a Queen. The frame is a lovely wood, even though it’s from IKEA. 

My Queen bed feels like it’s taking up prime real estate in my 465 square foot apartment, which is neither Princely, Queenly and never Kingly in its prime. Jokerly is what my apartment is. Or maybe it’s more like a Voodoo-doll in terms of its disrepair, and I walk the plank. All I know is I pay a Queen’s sum and soon a King's ransom to live where I do. Jump, jump! Off with her head!

The reason I bring up my bed, is that before Y2K, you remember, WHEN THE WORLD WAS GOING TO END BECAUSE THE COMPUTERS WERE GOING TO CRASH BECAUSE THEY COULDN’T RECOGNIZE THE YEAR 2000, I had a live-in boyfriend. I shared my bed with him for several years and he body-checked me into the future. To this day, I am glued to sleeping on the very wee right side of my Queen bed. 

Maybe I'll rent out the massive space to the left of me.

The drawback of all the space on the left is that it makes me think. When I think I cannot sleep. When I cannot sleep I worry about all the people who do not have beds in the world, and I consider how much space I am wasting. I decide I have to immediately get rid of my bed in the morning and buy a twin.

This momentarily dispels my anxiety, and I can uncurl from the furtive foetal position I’ve been maintaining all night. I momentarily relax. This calm rarely lasts, when I realize if I have a twin bed, where will I have sex? Then a more ridiculous idea comes to mind. I realize if I’m unable to have sex, I can't get married. What?! I think to myself. I’ve never wanted to get married! Or, have I?

I don’t want to seem like I suffer from some kind of child-like twin bed psychosis when I meet my next partner. My interests and personality are an acquired taste, even though I’m proud of who I am. I know my eccentricities are also foibles. I recognize what I lack as an human all too well, that is why I avoid the book section titled 'Self-Improvement' and try for a little progress each day. To get it all right, I try to move on to wherever I’m going in some sort of grace. Buying I twin bed, I conclude, is neither graceful, nor in my life's plan. 

Long after losing my virginity, I still feel like I am chaste every time I start a brand new relationship. As a single woman, I feel scrutinized and unsure about my sexual identity. I don’t feel fluent, able to walk the landscape of choice between chastity, responsible experimentation, the desire for marriage, and never wanting to marry. It seems I must announce my single title, know where I’m going and announce my intentions for show and tell. The part of me who thought she was a feminist rages up and wishes I could simply announce myself as Mr. to enjoy the anonymity and power men seem to have. 

With all this worrying, I got out of bed one morning, exhausted, to fetch a small glass of juice and proceed back to bed. As I was shuffling back to my bedroom, I noticed a piece of paper tucked underneath my apartment door. It was upside down. I flipped it over. It read "The Truth." "The truth has arrived underneath my door,” I said quietly to myself. 

I tossed the paper out. The huge ego of my bed deflated, and my anxiety left the room. I felt less puffy. The inside of my apartment swirled and whooshed, draining itself of my ridiculous thoughts. I threw my head back and laughed. My truth had arrived, and I was going to be fine.



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