notes on: sharing a bed

One of the worst things about being in a relationship is sharing a bed. 

It wasn’t until I was 21, in my fourth year of university that I finally experienced the luxury of a double bed, albeit a lumpy mattress in a cold room in an untidy flat that smelled of damp. When I returned home after graduating I was once again relegated to the ranks of my childhood single bed, a bed which I seemed to have outgrown, not physically but emotionally.

My homecoming was somewhat permanent and in the absence of a proper job and a proper life, my parents let me redecorate my bedroom and finally I got a double bed to call my own. The bed I still sleep in today, in my own flat, next to the man I love. 

But sharing comes with a whole host of headaches. No longer can I spread out, starfished in the middle of my memory foam-mattress. I can’t haphazardly drink a cup of tea and devour a plate of crumby toast with reckless abandon. My heavy breathing and sometimes-snoring can cause my partner misery and I now stay up later than my inner-granny would like. 

However when I get peace, and I’m treated to a night alone in my own bed, the space feels empty. I miss the solid, safe, warmth of a body. I miss the reassuring sound of sleep. I miss the bedtime rituals, the goodnights and the good mornings.

One of the best things about being in a relationship is sharing a bed.