This is embarrasing story #588,601. I was telling my friend Joy this story the other day. I figured I might as well document it for safe keeping.
I dated this guy Justin who lives in a warehouse with four other people. It’s like a commune. I’m already wary of older guys who live with one roommate let alone four roommates. I hated going to his place. I made a vow to never date someone who lived outside of the city and here I was breaking one of my holiest covenants, driving practically to the airport to visit him. Ugh.
My friend says, “I’d rather have a long distance relationship with a New Yorker than date a guy who doesn’t live in the city.” I couldn’t agree more.
I was already in a pissy mood having driven to Justin’s place. That was compounded by my fatigue from having worked a long day. Pissy-pissy-pissy. Barely one hour had passed before I declared, “I’m really exhausted. I just want to go to bed.” Justin told me to go lay down on his bed. He would join me in a while; he still wanted to chat with his roommates. “Of course,” I sulked, “there are enough of them.”
I make my way to his room. I’m in a bad enough mood that it doesn’t even phase me that he doesn’t have a regular bed. It’s a fucking blow-up mattress! My parents immigrated to this country with absolutely nothing. Nada. But I know they weren’t spending their nights in sleeping bags. My parents understand the importance of a good night’s sleep and back support.
I angrily throw myself onto the quasi-bed. The whistling noise of deflation fills the silence of the room. I’m too tired to cry. If I had had the energy to cry, I would have surely revved up my car and driven back to my city of lights and high-rises.
I’m drifting. The sheep are lining up to be counted. I’m a few heartbeats away from real sleep and rapid eye movement. Pump, pump, pump. I shudder awake. What the hell is disturbing my impending sleep? There’s Justin beside the mattress, pumping away. I’m ready to pounce like a tiger going in for the kill. How dare he interrupt my peace. In my mind, it’s over. I tell myself, “you just have to make it to the morning. You can do it.”
My friend Joy is laughing as I recount the story. “You deserve more than a blow-up mattress. You deserve a Sealy Posturpedic!” Oh, the finer things in life.