This column originally appeared in the Chicago Tribune January 30, 2018
The bellman at the tropical resort opened the hotel door with a flourish, signaling the official start of our annual winter family getaway. This year it would be five days in Cancun, Mexico; nothing but sun, surf and a long time of necessary family bonding.
One look at the sleeping accommodations and, instantly, my wife and I realized “bonding” on this trip would be less about establishing close relationships and more about being physically stuck together.
Yes, the welcoming January sun was streaming through our window and the sound of crashing surf served as a constant reminder that we should be thankful to be in warm environs as opposed to back home, dressed in multiple layers of wool garments necessary to venture outside and chisel ice off our windshields. Instead, we conjured up images of sore backs, stiff necks and early morning wakeups that were out of our control.
These things happen when one stares at a double bed.
The hotel housekeeping staff, having gotten wind of our upcoming 25th anniversary, had meticulously covered one of the two beds in colored rice, forming a heart. Alas, their efforts were completely lost on us as we gaped at a mattress whose dimensions we hadn’t encountered once in the last quarter century. Even as a single man, I had a queen-sized bed. Granted, it was usually covered in dirty clothes, with bedding that was washed every other week at best. Still, it measured 60 inches wide. When we married, our first purchase was a king-sized mattress. Its dimensions, 80 inches long by 76 inches wide, allowed for stretching, turning, comfortable lovemaking and Chinese takeout under the covers, the latter a Friday night ritual before kids entered our lives.
The standard double bed, conversely, measures 74 inches in length and a scant 54 inches wide. My daughters, both teenagers and used to slumbering on couches, air mattresses and concrete due to years of sleepovers and summer camps, happily climbed into one bed without so much as a negative word. My wife and I approached our mattress like two hikers who had just encountered a slumbering grizzly bear.
“I’ll get in first,” I said, after removing rice from the bedspread.
I pulled back the sheets and slid into the bed’s left side, my confirmed sleeping space since 1993. Once semi-comfortably positioned, I invited my wife to join me.
“It’s not so bad,” I lied. “Plenty of room for you.”
“Where?” she replied. “You’re taking up all the space.”
“How can I be taking up ALL the space when one of my knees is hanging over the side?” I countered. “When you hear a crash in the night, that will be me, taking up all the space on the floor.”
Deftly, she got in and immediately rolled on her right side, her normal sleeping position. I rolled to my left, my customary slumbering spot. Our rear ends bumped together.
“Move over,” we said in unison.
“I can’t,” we both said.
That night my dreams always included a cliff. At 5 a.m., on what was supposed to be my first full day of rest and relaxation, I carefully extricated myself from the bed, hearing multiple joints pop in the process.
“Where are you going?” my wife mumbled.
“To the beach. To sleep.”
I think I heard her smile. I know I heard her legs swinging to what had been my side of the bed.
An identical scenario played out over the next three nights, always ending with me stumbling out of the room in early morning darkness, seeking coffee and space. On the last night, I requested, and received, a rollaway bed. As we packed for our return flight, I remarked to my wife that I finally felt rested.
“You know, a lot of couples our age sleep in separate beds,” she said. “Separate rooms, even.”
“How dull,” I said.
“How comfortable,” she replied.
“We may never sleep in a double bed again, but I guarantee we will never sleep in separate rooms,” I said.
“How come?”
“Because I refuse to walk down the hall carrying Chinese food.”
