Going philosophical on a matress.

Although it can be argued that Western Civilization has long since done away with it’s most meaningful rites of passage I would beg to differ. Nothing signals that you have reached adulthood more than shopping for and buying a new bed with your adorable French husband. My initiation into mattress adulthood came last week when our new bed arrived at our door. As the two remarkably cheerful French delivery men with dirty fingernails carefully attached the legs onto the “sommier”, I became acutely aware that I was passing from one phase of my life into another. From “twenty-something” to “thirty-something”, from futon to Posteurpedic.

Now, I realize most people don’t wax poetic or go all philosophic over their mattresses, but sometimes a bed is not just a bed. In my defense I’d like to explain that beds are special to me not only because of my love of sleep, but because I have spent so much of my life sleeping on really bad ones. (That and the fact that this bed costs more than my first car, or even my wedding dress.) From my squeaky childhood bunkbed to the dusty double stuffed futon in my first Brooklyn apartment (remember that one Alena?), where I’ve slept has always been a pretty good indicator of my lot in life. And if this mattress is such an indicator then baby, life is gooooood!