All that stands between me and depravity is an unmade bed. And so, dutifully, I straighten the sheets and unkink the covers until they lie perfectly flat. And only then I can start my day.
It doesn’t matter that dishes molder in the sink overnight. It doesn’t matter that the laundry is piling up and the fridge is emptying out. It doesn’t matter that Covid has eliminated unexpected — and judgmental– guests or that I’m working from home. Alone. If my bed is made, I am a woman of worth and accomplishment.
It’s funny where we draw the line between civilized and savage. At least it’s where I draw the line. I may be overwhelmed by the drudgery that housekeeping entails. But dustballs don’t ding my self esteem. Wrinkled clothes are casual chic. My toiletries may spill into the bathroom sink. But if my bed is made, I am okay.
Why do I draw the line in the sand at the bed stand? Why do I obsessively fluff up those pillows and stretch the quilt smooth? Maybe the phrase “you made your bed, now lie in it” is too literal for me to bear. I don’t want to end my day the same way it started, in confusion and clutter. I want to head to a bed that’s a clean slate from all that has transpired since I last retired. I want a reprieve, an escape, an asylum from the demands and dross of the day. An unmade bed is a sign of defeat. A flag of depression. An admission of failure. A character flaw.
But, ohhh, each night when I see my utterly calm and composed bedside, I can relax. I know all is well in my world. I am not an animal. I am a human being. My bed is made.
Where do you draw the line in the sand in your life?