Flat Baroque

One night, around dark thirty, I set out on a quest of sorts. On foot, flashlight in hand, I felt the twigs crack beneath my feet, smelled the spongy earth scent you only get when it’s rained recently. It was cold, but not frigid. I couldn’t see my own breath, but gloves and fleece lined pockets came in handy. There was a visible mist in the air, making an ordinary night into a scene from a horror movie. I’ve always loved night noises because they’re private, fickle even. Some critters scuttle away underfoot. Others cackle and shriek loudly, then silence themselves altogether as you approach. I knew I was in the right place as soon as my feet touched the gravel. Down a long path, around a wooded bend, next to a mossy tree, I found my destination. As I pointed my flashlight at the target, I felt wistfulness in my heart. I read the epitaph out loud. “Here lies Kevin Moon. He said terribly rude things to his wife while putting together an antique bed. May he rest in peace.” I kid! I kid, I tell you. But really, this is a story about how our marriage has been tested like never before. Because, nothing strains a relationship like furniture assembly.

It all started several years ago as we began packing our old house up in anticipation of an extensive remodel. Years earlier, we had purchased a brand-new bed. It was a massive, cherry wood, panel bed, an extraordinarily heavy thing that neither of us wanted to pay to store. “We’ll get a new bed!” we exclaimed. “Something more reflective of the age of our home.” That was well over 5 years ago, yet the bed hunt continued. First, there was the iron reproduction bed. I scored it on Marketplace for a steal. It was beautiful, but we quickly saw why it was practically gifted to us. The holes where hardware should have gone to attach the headboard and footboard were inches off from the Amazon ordered metal frame for the mattress. 37 zip ties later, we were all set, but my husband was convinced our standard poodle would get his leg trapped in the gap area and plummet to his demise. That wound up in a frustrated Mr. Moon ripping the footboard off with his bare hands and lofting it into the backyard. Alas, we were back to a bedless existence.

Next came the Pinterest bed. I had been holding an internet picture of a bed inside of my heart for years. Imagine a trio of stately doors, weathered by the sun of many generations and smoothed by the hands of eternity. I used two of the original doors to our home and lifted one from a neighbor’s ditch on trash day. It took me 2 weeks, about 100 cans of oven cleaner, and the kind of sunshine you can only get from a series of 110-degree days to strip and smooth those doors into a driftwood-colored dream of a headboard. It was truly lovely. But, as my frustration with the lack of style in my bedroom began to mount last year, I realized that the farmhouse, all white, anemic style just wasn’t me. My dark, brooding, complicated soul longed to sink into jewel tones, slumber on velvets, and laze atop tapestries. If it’s not baroque, fix it.

Marketplace is funny in an infuriating way. After deciding that an old poster bed was the only way to go, I began the search. I am still seething over a bed ad where a woman won’t reply back. WHY WOULD YOU NOT REPLY TO A FULL PRICE OFFER? We found another one locally, by chance, but were never able to find anyone working in the building. WHY ARE YOUR OPEN IF YOU AREN’T THERE? One serendipitous afternoon later, local proprietor found and price deemed acceptable, a late 50s/early 60s poster bed came here to live forever. We were elated, visions of snacks and Forensic Files dancing in our heads. “Quick, let’s put this together!” Him: But wait, how does the mattress fit over this weird center beam thingamabobber? Me: Oh, I get it. There’s room on either side of the thingamabobber for a twin box spring. Him: Let’s order it. Me: Amazon has a set that will be here by tomorrow. Him: Awesome. We can sleep in the floor tonight. I don’t know if you’ve slept on the floor lately, but it’s not for sissies. Suddenly, we were too long for our mattress, our toes scraping the cold floor. The pillows shot out from under our heads like cannonballs multiple times during the night. I almost fell trying to walk across the covers to get to the bathroom door. Mr. Moon woke up with a crick in his neck. Yet, hope was abounding, because the box springs arrived the next afternoon.

Spoiler alert, box springs are made from metal nowadays. What happened to the ones made from balsa wood? I had measured carefully. The ad said each box was 37.5 inches wide. The openings on either side of the thingamabobber were 38 inches wide. If you’re imagining two adults inside the frame of a bed trying to force what turned out to be a 38 inch box spring into a 38 inch space, with the man shooting dirty look daggers at his wife that included way too many sighs and phrases like “someonedidn’tmeasure this correctly,” “this is why we don’t buy old beds,” and (my favorite) “I knew this was going to happen,” you are right. Hence, we find ourselves paying posthumous homage to a man on a dark and gloomy night. At least, for any other man, that’s how this would’ve ended. Thankfully, Mr. Moon is an excellent critical thinker who comes up with crafty solutions like disassembling metal box springs and building them back slightly smaller in width. I love my bed. I’m super happy I didn’t unalive my husband. The end.