More adventures in [fake] adulthood: Bed edition

We bought a bed for the guest room yesterday. Bed shopping is a great pastime that everyone should try, especially those folks who are not interested in buying anything and like to kill time walking around furniture showrooms. This is basically a description of me. I always liked home furnishings displays: the rows of rooms-in-miniature, the way you skip through all the styles from jungle print to frilly pink lace to blue no-nonsense corduroy, the way these elaborate nested environments exist to help you envision how this would look in your house.

That last has never interested me, though, and not only because it has the sales pitch of IMAGINE YOUR NEW ROOM oozing throughout–I just like the combination and the whole, as if here lives a family of twenty (modern, obviously) Vikings in their (modern, obviously) longhouse, and they all have such divergent tastes. So naturally I have a great time, whether I’m broke or not–and I’m usually broke.

Depending on the bed store or furniture warehouse you choose to shop for your bed (real or imagined), you will usually be accosted by a salesperson within ten seconds of entry. This isn’t bad, since if you ARE shopping for a bed, salespeople can show you the dimmest, most unobtrusive corner where they shove all two of the cheap mattress options. And whether you ARE shopping or being a bed tourist, the salespeople will with barest prompting show you the most expensive and comfortable mattress options, and invite you to lay on them for as long as you want. They will also counsel you about pillows.

The last time I did this was after four hours of unloading boxes in 100+ degree heat, 99%ish humidity into our new Texas apartment. I almost fell asleep in the store. I must’ve smelled okay, because they didn’t kick me out.

This time we didn’t mess around, oohing at pillow tops or admiring the Latest from Las Vegas Hotels*. We poked around the dim areas of a few stores and finally found the cheapest squashiest mattress we could force our guests to enjoy, strapped it into the truck, pulled over on the freeway to re-strap because reasons (as I’ve said, adulthood is hard), and got it home to find that the damn thing didn’t quite fit down the stairs. Or so we thought! Box springs have a lot more give than you would expect if you just crack them a bit.

A. warns me this might read like a blanket invitation to come stay with us. Come on by, if you dare. If you do, I’ll tuck you in and read you the furniture store receipt for a bedtime story.

 

 

 

 

*Apparently a thing when you’re buying mattresses. It’s not a brand, it’s just something the salesperson will drop into the pitch. “Oh, this bed, it’s normally priced over a thousand, it’s the very same that they have in their hotels in … Las Vegas.” I do not think I’ve ever heard anyone claim a specific hotel or company, like “Caesar’s Palace buys only these beds!” No, it’s always nebulous. A mirage. Not even The Mirage. And maybe I’ve just been staying at too many cheap hotels, but I’ve never been that impressed with hotel mattresses. Perhaps I just need to go to … Las Vegas.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “More adventures in [fake] adulthood: Bed edition

  1. I think having a guest room with an actual usable bed in it (as opposed, say, to a guest room packed wall-to-wall with Things We Don’t Need But Can’t Get Rid Of Yet, or a guest room whose bed is totally buried underneath forty years of stuffed animals) is what really proves you’re a Grown Up. Just for god’s sake don’t put the vacuum cleaner back there, because that’s like a gateway item and the next thing you know you’ll have the snowblower and six cases of dog food piled back there.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s