Part I: "Why I Don't Make My Bed"

It's a part of my job to make sure the children have made their beds in the morning, so I do, but I don't make my bed. It's out of defiance that I don't. I made my bed through highschool, and then when I lived in the dorm (I got 30 demerits, though, for not doing it regularly enough), but I didn't do it in my first apartment, or on 13th street, and I don't do it now.

I will make my bed approximately once a week now -- an improvement based on the nature of my job that includs a "laundry day" -- which I can consider my "starting point." I do a lengthy job on this day: piling pillows and aligning hems and lint-rolling the dog-hair off the dust-ruffle. It looks great.

The first argument for not being a bed-maker is that my prefered arrangement for achieving "tidy" is a far cry from the acievement of "comfortable." If I tediously tucked and smoothed the covers (still warm from my sleeping body, so like a sacred relic of a glorified being, for I hallow the times for sleep) then each night would put me through needless tossing and pulling to finally find a position for rest. This is not my way.

I am fond of "crashing" so that I fall asleep "the moment my head hits the pillow." My bed ought to be ready for this. The delight of this "crashing" activity is heightened by the fact that I now only have one digarette a day, and that before I go to bed. This way I am lifted by the nicotene from heavy thoughts to tingling altitudes, with lessened circulation, where my dreams begin as I turn out the light.