Ages ago, back in the time of the Eternal Occupation, we offered my parents the beautiful iron bed from our spare room. We did this so that they would move out since the stated barrier to the move was that they didn’t have anything to sleep on. They didn’t move (obviously) since the stated reason was not the real reason at all (that may never be known).
But they still are taking the bed.
Indeed, they announced that they needed to pick it up so that they could furnish their spare room. I quickly calculated in my head the degree of emotional upheaval vs bed possession and decided that I was happy to let the bed go. This has been a sore point with my wife who, despite complaining about the bed since we got it, wishes to keep it. My new calculations have resulted in a heap of shit, despite desperate attempts to fudge the math.
This morning I suggested they might try to find a bed nearer to them so that they didn’t need to drive to us to pick it up and then to drive back. I thought this was a good solution, considering that it’s an hour each way. This was a grave error, my friends, and has transformed into not only the gift of a bed, but three days with them since they are inexplicably coming tonight in order to watch RR tomorrow afternoon and then staying until Sunday at which point we will drive with them to set the bed back up again. That’s our entire weekend.
This is a flagrant abuse of the internet, to complain about a bed.
For me, it’s a horrible glimpse into the creature I’ll probably become. Not one visit has passed without my mother reminding me that everything we do for each other has some kind of accounting. Redirecting her from something she wants or expects can result in disaster…or not. I see our similarities and wonder if it has already happened, this becoming. And in my worse moments, I’m certain it has. There are more of those than not lately.
It’s just a bed. To be honest, the sooner it’s gone, the better.