I had become convinced that anything soft retained bad energy. I would not leave the house with any of the following: towels, sheets, bath mat, shower curtain, curtains in general, pillows, blankets (exception: blankets that had been hand-made for me prior to being married) or otherwise anything else that had been rubbed on or come in contact with our bodies in any way. Our bodies had contaminated the soft things with bad energy. To bring any of them into my new dwelling would result in nothing other than my ultimate unhappiness.
For the most part, it was easy to split our belongings. Anything we owned before we married belonged to whoever had brought it into the union. We were civil about things we bought together. Or, I was civil about things we bought together. Too civil, probably. This is how he got the new furniture. I didn’t want it; it was soft. If an item was bought by one or the other’s parents, then that item belonged to the corresponding spouse. This is how he ended up with a service of dishes and cutlery for twelve, despite not giving a rat’s ass about entertaining. The pattern was too fussy for me anyway.
Most offensive to me, was the bed. Governed by the rules we made up as I careened through my packing in the two months between The End and my move-out date, I should move the bed. It was the first real grown-up thing I ever purchased. I bought it when I moved into my first apartment with Sharon. I liked that bed. It was mine.
But it was soft and the dog had dug a hole in it. Two holes, really. We’d flipped the hole to the bottom when we still lived on Morton. She promptly dug a matching hole on the other side. That fucking dog.
I considered taking the metal frame, leaving him to sleep on the shitty mattress on the floor. The thought gave me quite a bit of personal satisfaction. When the movers showed up, I told them, "Don’t bother with that." The frame and the mattress were inextricably linked. It may as well have been soft.
In the new place, I lived for a week with only a yoga mat, a camping chair, my stereo and a loaner bed that had been donated to the cause by my cousin. Even after the rest of my stuff came, I kept on sleeping on the tiny bed. And I’m not going to say I don’t appreciate the donation, because I do, but this bed was a piece of shit. Twin-sized, with an ancient mattress that broke my back for months until my little friend Clover, 2 years old, moved out of her crib into a Big-Girl Bed and a thought occurred to me:
Jesus Christ, Clover has a bigger bed than I do. Get your shit together, Les. For fuck’s sake.
I’d gotten stuck. That twin bed was holding me back! I had to keep going forward. I made a date with IKEA. My Big-Girl Bed arrived, just before Christmas. This is how I really started moving on. Anything at all can happen if you’re ready to become a Big Girl.