My Bed is My Beach

When I first started meditating in high school, they used to suggest some place calm to go—like the beach. But I used to always picture my bed. There was no place that I’d rather be. I had inherited my great grandmother’s bed with a slump in the middle of the mattress, but it was still my bed and I longed for its comfort.

When I moved to Venice beach, I was even more grateful for my bed because of all the homeless people at the beach that didn’t have a bed. Sure, it’s ideal to live at the beach…unless the beach is your bed. The sun is great for a certain period of time, but if there is no place to take refuge, then the sun is the flaming devil, the sizzling cloud waiting to strike....sssszzzzzzzzzzzz!! Burn! My futon was fifteen years old, but it was my sanctuary, the first purchase my boyfriend made for us when we lived together one summer in college.

When my beau and I stayed at the W Hotel, however, it was as if I had an affair on that futon and could never go back. I had tasted a good night’s sleep like never before. I invested in the W bed, and have never looked back. The plush top, the 825 coil count, the Primaloft Duvet—they don’t call it the Heavenly bed for nothing.

I bought new sheets for my bed at Target. I had to cut cost corners somewhere. The lime green, teal, and brown polka dots make me happy. My luxury bed is my lover every night of the week. I am always satisfied in the morning.

When I stayed in Korea, on their hard box spring beds, I counted the days until I would be back in my own bed. I realize my bed is the SUV of beds. I see myself as living simply, but the bed is my downfall of consumer capitalism. I make no apologies for this lush landscape.