鈥淵ou鈥檝e made your bed. Now you must lie in it.鈥�
As idioms go, this proverb seems clear even to persons for whom English is a second language. Who wouldn鈥檛 want to lie in a bed he has made?
Which brings forth a confession. I enjoy making the bed in the morning.
It has not always been thus. Were a s茅ance convened to interview my mother on the matter, she would proclaim that my incessant shirking of my bed-making duties turned her hair prematurely grey. As for me, I could not grasp the revulsion an unmade bed triggered in mom, even when she chased me down the hallway with a hairbrush while exclaiming to the heavens her great mystery 鈥� why her oldest child would not make his bed. She never received the answer she sought.
Flash forward to boot camp. Making one鈥檚 bunk took on a different level of significance. Any careless attempt at hospital corners brought down upon me the wrath of the drill instructor who made me yearn for momma鈥檚 hairbrush.
That was a long time ago, but ever since I make my bed every morning. Not from fear, but from joy. On rare occasions when time compressed meant I鈥檇 have to postpone making the bed until after an early appointment. I am haunted and distracted by the specter of disheveled sheets and blankets, scattered pillows, and a rumpled bedspread.
鈥淒o you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?鈥�
鈥淲hat? Oh. Uh. Can you repeat the question?鈥�
First thing I do, if I make bail, is hurry home and trot upstairs to make the bed. I may be a client of the correctional system before the month is out, but until then, our bed shall be made, and I am the one to do it. Even if incarcerated, I would make the bunk to which my cellmate allotted to me.
Oh, but when I finish making our bed, with a spritz of lavender pillow mist lingering in the air, I step back and admire my handiwork. There, before me, a tidy rectangle of unwrinkled order. The bedspread is even and aligned and smooth. Our 14 pillows are stacked as if by Robert Frost.
Too many pillows you say? Surely, sir 鈥� do you mind if I call you Shirley? 鈥� you must be someone who neither reads in bed nor has cats. Otherwise, you would not question the quantity of our pillows, unless to ask, 鈥淥nly 14 pillows? You must be a light reader.鈥�
For those of you, dear readers, for whom making a bed in the morning holds the same appeal as drinking what鈥檚 left of a cold cup of yesterday鈥檚 coffee, I offer only this: recollect clean linen beneath blankets sufficient to keep us warm, neatly folded back to receive us, our pillows plumped and ready to welcome our weary heads.
Of course, let鈥檚 make our beds that we may lie in them.