I’m a big kid now

I am almost 24 years old. And for about 22 of those years (well, basically since I left the crib), I have slept in a twin bed. And not just any twin bed — a pretty kickass four-poster twin bed with a damn fine mattress. For being a kid-sized bed, it’s super comfy and has been good to me, which is why I brought it with me when I moved out of my parents’ house after college. My dad said, “You can have your bed for free, or you can buy yourself a bed.” Not exactly a brainteaser.

OK mine isn't this bad, but it's close.

Most of my friends have had full or queen size beds since they outgrew their twins, but not me. I’ve stayed loyal to that sucker for 22 long years. (Not like I had much choice in the matter.) The tiny beds in college didn’t even bother me; I was used to sleeping in a bed for one. Although, the plastic mattresses were crappy and I always looked forward to visiting home and sinking into the heavenly comfort of my own bed. I loved that bed.

However, once I moved out of my parents’ house and into an apartment of my own, I realized just how ridiculous it was that I still slept in a twin bed. Giving people tours of my apartment always led to me explaining my sleeping situation. “You see, I brought this from my parents’ house and I’m saving up to buy a new bed. When I do, this will go in the guestroom.” The guestroom where my guests slept on an air mattress on the floor. Real classy, I know.

But I never bought one, never upgraded to a “big girl bed.” The one time I actually had some money saved, I bought a new laptop when my old one died. “Sorry bed, you’ll have to wait,” I said. Then right after Christmas, I came really close. I even went shopping with the guy I was dating at the time, which made dad real happy. “This only means one thing,” he told my mom after I’d called for mattress-buying advice.

But the thing is, it wasn’t about that. At all. It was about being an actual adult, and making grownup purchases for my grownup life. The four-poster twin may be comfy, but it kept me feeling like a kid. Feeling like I didn’t even fit into my own adult life. Like for some reason I didn’t deserve the life I’d made for myself. I know that’s reading a lot into my bed size, but your home says a lot about who you are and how you live your life. I still didn’t end up buying a mattress, though. I soon found out that I would be getting a slight pay cut at work, making a new bed completely out of the question. Then I got laid off, and well, you know the rest.

I’ve now moved to a new place and into a new apartment, and I was determined. My credit card isn’t happy with me, but I finally bought the big girl bed of my dreams, with a gorgeous new comforter and 400 thread count sheets to boot. I knew that if I didn’t just go for it, I never would. For those of you who can’t remember the last time you slept in a twin bed – and simply cannot appreciate the luxury of your current sleeping arrangement because you take it for granted – let me tell you how I feel. Have you ever gone to a really fancy hotel and just collapsed onto the giant bed of cushy pillows and bliss? And you spread your body across the entire bed just because you can? And giggle? (OK maybe that last one is just me.) THAT is how I feel. Every. Night.

my new bedding

It’s like I’ve finally graduated from the kiddie table and can sit with the grownups at Thanksgiving. I know it sounds dumb, but it’s almost empowering. I sit on my big girl bed and think: “This is mine. I bought it. I made this happen for myself.” With a little help from my parents in actually getting it here from Charlotte, of course. I’ve wanted a big girl bed for probably 15 years, and I finally have one. All. To. Myself. It’s glorious.

But I won’t lie… every time I walk through my (now) guestroom, I feel a little guilty. It’s like I’ve hurt the four-poster’s feelings. I’ve abandoned it. It looks so lonely in there, without me. And then I walk into my incredibly gigantic bedroom, with an incredibly gigantic bed, and I forget all about that pathetic twin.

“Is that POOP?”

“What, that?” I said. “No, that’s just where the paint has chipped off the door. That’s why it’s brown.”

“No, not that. THAT. On the ground. What is that?”

And there, sitting in a quiet, little unassuming pile in the corner of a door jam in my new (to me) apartment, was poop. It wasn’t small enough to be a mouse’s, and not big enough to be a dog’s. Instead it was a grouping of pellets, perhaps from a rabbit. I bent down and inspected the specimen. Without touching, of course.

Yep. It was definitely poop.

I grabbed a paper towel and scooped up the pile as my sister-in-law, disgusted, watched from afar. The poop was clearly old and crusty, which for some reason made me feel better. At least it wasn’t fresh, right? Because that means it’s at least been a while since a live animal of some sort was in my house, pooping.

Such was my introduction to my new home in a new city. Surprisingly, the droppings didn’t really bother me as much as they probably should have. I’ve come a long way in what I can handle. Losing my job? Near mental breakdown. Poop on the floor? Whatev.

Although that wasn’t the only issue upon moving in. Seems there was a slight miscommunication between the landlord and the utilities’ company last week, and I had power but no hot water. Let’s just say I wouldn’t need to join a gym if I kept up those ab workouts just trying to avoid frigid water spilling down my back in a shower that’s smaller than a cruise ship bathroom. Other than that, the apartment is fantastic. Cheap rent, new appliances and hardwood floors, all in a charming old house with enormous rooms and sky-high ceilings to boot.

So after the sub-freezing shower-induced headache subsided and my family headed back home, I was left with boxes to unpack and a life to start.

But without Internet, I felt incapable of doing hardly anything. I hadn’t checked my email in probably 36 hours, let alone stalked my friends on facebook. So after picking up some curtain rods at Target, I drove around the city in an attempt to find free WiFi. A phone call to The Artist (who did a little internet research for me) led me to the public wireless network downtown. Of course, being a Sunday evening, none of the municipal buildings was open. So instead I sat in my parked car outside the library with my laptop like a creeper as a handful of cars drove past. This is how I get things done.

No joke, there was totally a guy in the bar wearing this.

Now it’s Wednesday night and I have hot water, Internet, cable, a new cell phone (that was an entire ordeal in and of itself) and am beginning to settle in quite nicely. I even made a few friends last night after working a 13-hour day when one of the sports guys invited me out for a beer and a cheeseburger. The bar was smoky and the people were trashy (minus the tall, awkward guy dressed head-to-toe in what I can only guess was an authentic X-Men replica suit), but it totally beat eating alone. And I got to know two of my coworkers outside the office, who gave me the lowdown on office gossip. Though, it doesn’t seem like there’s anything particularly juicy. Damn.

So work is good, although I’m already swamped and feeling like I’m in over my head. I’m essentially doing the job I had in Culpeper, on top of covering two other beats. I guess being busy is better than being bored. Plus, the people are great and my boss is a riot. And there’s a young professionals mixer tomorrow night, which means an opportunity to meet more people.

I think I’ll be ok. As long as whatever left me the little present on my floor doesn’t show back up.