I’ve got a weighty matter or twelve rattling around in my brain, and I cry uncle. It’s the end of the week. I can only think seriously about anything for so long before my left eyelid starts to twitch. I. Have had. ENOUGH.
And when the tough have had enough, the tough go shopping.
Normally I’m content to indulge in the smallest bit of retail therapy for my fix; although I probably TALK as though shopping is my second career, the truth is that it takes very little to satiate me. I do a lot of shopping but not a lot of buying. And what I do buy is likely to be so cheap it barely even counts as shopping.
But that’s the deal for normal stressors, not when I’m really feeling frazzled within inches of my sanity. A $6 pair of clearance shoes is not going to cut it, this time. No, the time has come to tackle the mother of all purchases, and I need your help.
I’m aware of the irony. Here I spend a good chunk of my time giving others buying advice, and yet I’m asking for help. Shopper, guide thyself! Or, um, something! Oh, just hear me out.
The crux of the matter is this: I am sleeping on a bed I bought (cheap! and used! and let’s not think about the used part too much, because YUCK) in grad school. More accurately, I am—at this point—barely sleeping on the bed I bought in grad school.
It is an industrial metal t-frame (the kind most mattress places will give you for free) underneath a full-size, lumpy mattress set. It has been dying a slow death for years, and despite the padded “comfort top” cover I bought for it, despite the planks I strategically placed between the boxspring and the mattress in an effort to shore up the weak points, it is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad bed.
I’ve been thinking about replacing this bed ever since I divorced and my ex took the queen bed. This bed was the guest bed (we were awesome hosts, clearly… come for the screaming brats, stay for the back pain) for years before it became my bed again. But, you know. Money. Practicality. Maybe it’s not so bad. And so the years have ticked away.
Well. It’s becoming less of a “wouldn’t it be nice if…” and more of a “for the love of all that is holy…” sort of matter. My neck is still not the same since the car crash last winter, and I can’t help thinking that the bed isn’t really helping matters.
Fortunately, I have been siphoning funds (siphoning funds! am in my own imaginary mob!) into a Bed Fund for a while. It will cause me to blanche and swoon, but I do think I’ve just about worked myself up to the mindset necessary to fork over a big wad of cash in order to have something comfortable upon which to slumber. Buying a bed is not the issue.
The issue is WHICH BED to buy. And here is where I humbly entreat you to share your collective wisdom with me.
No, I’m not looking for recommendations on a particular brand. I want to know what SIZE to buy.
The current bed is a full, and it is CLEARLY too small. Case in point: Chickadee wandered into my room in the middle of the night, miserable, with a cold, last week. I allowed her to hop into bed with me and then spent the remainder of the night clinging to the edge of the mattress for dear life and attempting to dislodge her elbow from my nose. There is a reason that her first nickname is Chickie, and her second nickname is BEDPIG.
The bed I used to have was a queen, and that was quite nice. I suspect that what I should do is buy another queen. Although if BOTH kids want to pile in and watch cartoons—particularly if there are two adults involved (here I shall pause and attempt to look innocent and pure in response to your expectant expression until I can find something shiny to distract you)—it could get a little tight.
My standard advice in matters of bed shopping is that a king-size bed is an extravagance unless the people involved are giants. I’m 5’6″ and not really a bedpig like Chickadee and I generally sleep alone. (Although, I do believe there’s a verse in that whole Said The Spider To The Fly thing where she says “Hey! I have a REALLY BIG BED!”)
And yet… the idea of being able to tuck an ailing child into my bed and sleep comfortably beyond flailing limbs is intoxicating. The notion that I could fold a mountain of laundry atop such a bed without running out of room by the time I get to the socks is alluring. The concept of such a vast expanse of comfort purely for sleeping (or, maybe, um, Scrabble) is enticing.
The price differential between a queen and a king is not insignificant, but not insurmountable, either. It comes down to whether I do my standard “this is probably enough, and the more frugal choice” or just throw caution to the wind, treat this as a 20-year investment (amortize for easy justification!), stand tall and say I’m 35 years old and I hardly ever spend on myself and I want a king-sized bed, DAMMIT.
Cast your vote! King or queen? Bonus points for compelling arguments for or against, but keep it clean. While you think about it, I’ll be over here, sleeping in the lumpy bed, and dreaming of my wonderful new bed where I never wake up in the night to discover that one of my ass cheeks has fallen asleep. You’re welcome.