The first time my husband slept over at my parents’ house, he was banished to the basement in a valiant attempt to preserve my sainted chastity. The next morning, he emerged from the staircase a swollen, seeping mess. His allergic reaction to the damp abyss of his subterranean chambers was so severe that my parents took mercy and allowed him up to my sacred chamber. There were, after all, twin beds up there.
There was a time in my life when having to share twin beds with my husband would have been disappointing at best, a deal breaker if being considered for any prolonged period of time. I remember after my girl was born and my parents came to stay, I went to say good morning to them and asked how they had slept in their twin beds. My dad replied: “Twin beds suck.”
When we arrived at my husband’s childhood home last week for a visit, we had our choice of rooms, there was a bed for everyone. Two in the blue room and two in the brown. The kids were not big fans of the décor in the blue room, and when their dad started channeling “Talky Tina” they bolted to the relative safety of the brown room.
I chose the bed by the window and hid the dolls out of sight. When it came time to tuck myself in, I was immediately smitten. No one rolled over and took the covers with him. No one complained about my reading light. I could add or remove blankets without consultation. No one breathed on me, or ejected any other explosive bodily emission. And no one complained if I did any of the aforementioned offensive acts. In the night, there was even a change up of roommates that barely stirred me from my sleep. Twin beds! I love twin beds. Kinda lonely, though.
After two nights at the in-laws, we arrived home and got ready for bed. There were noises. There were cold feet. There were emissions. There were blanket wars. There were laughs. And he’s warm.
Twin beds are okay to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.