A few nights ago, I was talking with Mike Ruffino, who commented that he hates sleeping. Once the utter shock of such a bored-housewife-on-Ritalin-type remark wore off ("Who wants MUFFINS?", "Mom, it's three in the morning." You get the idea), I thought about how much I inversely adore sleeping. My dreams aren't especially noteworthy (in fact most of them drift dreadfully back and forth between being swallowed alive by rogue ocean waves and returning to high school, only to flunk the class I always excelled in - English), and I'm certainly not one of those people who wakes pleasantly with the sun. But the sleep I do get - ideally between 8 and 9 hours a night, a quota I realize is a luxury for some - is peaceful, deep, and undisturbed.
I suspect part of this is due to my sleeping arrangements. In college I was known by my close friends for the type of boudoir quarters I would rig up in our cinderblock dorm rooms. On the bottom bunk I'd affix swooping garlands of fabric, festooning all sides of my bed with an exotic curtain surrounding a pile of pillows and blankets. It was an effect not unlike the inside of a genie's bottle, or, as my friends referred to it, a bohemian circus tent.
Subsequently, what's of utmost importance to me in whatever bedroom I inhabit is the comfort level of my bed. Sure, my bed frame isn't much to look at. It's compact and it's Ikea and I can carry it fully assembled on one shoulder if I wanted to. But oh, how that frame serves as a sturdy base for whatever absurdly overwrought embellishments my mind cooks up. Such is the case with the current wintery incarnation of Laurel's Incredible Bed. My logic is not way out of line, here: We sleep an average of twenty-five hundred hours a year, and assuming we live to the ripe old age of 90, that's nearly 230,000 hours we spend in peaceful slumber. We spend less time driving, less time working, and certainly less time (hopefully) doing anything else so specific with our time (the sole contender, I suppose, is checking Facebook). So it's not completely ridiculous to invest in making our bed a place we'd like to spend that much time, am I right?
I am right. Henceforth, an entire blog post devoted to my bed. Because, folks, it's a sight to behold so I command you to drink it in and revel in the majesty that I curl up to every night. The first layer is a mattress I acquired from Ikea a few years back. I don't know what it is about that mattress but with God as my witness: There does not exist a more comfortable mattress on His green earth. On top of this amazing first layer I've tucked a feather down comforter under my fitted sheet. The effect is, predictably, like sleeping on an imaginary cloud. And anyone who's paid any attention at all to my Facebook status updates today will note that it's winter in Long Beach and guys, it is cold in my room. 56 degrees this morning when I woke up. That's downright jacket weather! Ergo, I top my 5'5" 98.6 degrees with yet another down comforter coupled with a quilt. That is the main layer. Above that, we have yet another down throw across the southern region of La Bed, and then the real fun begins: All the fur. Yep. 6 pelts in total, layered and strewn across the expanse of my comforter. The result is heavy, soft, and most importantly, warm.
Oh, but that's not all. Because why should one have to sleep with the magic of fur facing away from one's body? One should not suffer the travesty, I say. Which is why I also have the softest fur imaginable - the pièce de résistance - tucked inside my comforter, facing my skin. BEHOLD! THE MOST COMFORTABLE BED IN THE ENTIRE WORLD! A tour de force whose comfort is unparalleled anywhere in our galaxy.
See that? Just looking at it makes me sleepy. And envious. Of myself.