The bed consisted of a mattress atop a wooden box-like frame. The corners of the frame were constantly coming unconnected. Every few days she would sit on the carpet wearing her grey cowboy boots and kick the weakest corner with her heel, temporarily reconnecting the two pieces of wood.
I’m no John Irving (BEST 1ST SENTENCES EVER) but I’m indulging myself in thinking this opener has some nice atmosphere to it.
Self-flattery aside, the issue at hand was that my bed needed to be secured more permanently. I was told it involved an electric drill, an extra-long screw and hope that the already weakened cardboard-like wood wouldn’t fall apart upon its encounter with said drill. A dreaded task, but it needed to be done. Or did it?
In addition to the bed frame constantly coming apart, due to the not-so-levelness of our house floors, in many places there were gaps between the frame and floor that bit and cut up my toes on a regular basis. And the frame added 2-3 inches of width and length (but zero height) in an already small room. So why was I putting effort into permanently securing a piece of furniture that provided no benefit to me and was indeed injuring me on a regular basis?
Well I’ll tell you, once I had this realization that bed came apart pretty darn fast. With a manual screwdriver and the vigor of two tween girls, it seemed like that frame was in pieces and in the basement before my episode of the The Good Wife ended. The bed is now in the corner, the floor space has increased temendously, there’s no kicking maintenance required and my toes are safe from harm.
The metaphysical aspect of this experience leaves me wondering what (or who) else in my life 1) requires constant physical and/or mental maintenance? 2) drains energy? 3) causes harm? 4) provides little to no benefit? 5) could easily be removed? Something to think about for sure.