I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. I’ve ridden in the back of a police car four times, I’ve skipped flossing, and I’ve lied about eating the last piece of cake.
But nothing compares to the huge mistake I made as a freshman in high school.
When I was 14, I finally got to redecorate my room. I had grown up in a pink, frilly prison that my mother had so lovingly designed. I hated it. I had tried to cover up the flowery wallpaper with Broadway posters and my own artsy masterpieces to no avail. But now I finally had my chance to design my dream room.
I spent months scouring interior design websites, magazines, and stores. I had to scratch my plan of erecting Roman columns in place of a doorway, but I finally found a color scheme I loved.
I convinced my mom to let me rip up the carpet to expose the gorgeous wooden floor. I went with a clean, beachy vibe: turquoise walls with orange and green lanterns, and striped sheets. I scored an awesome papasan chair on sale. I finally picked out some gorgeous white furniture which would eventually be my first set when I moved out after college.
Now here’s where I made my mistake. Even though I hated my childhood room, there was one perk: my bed. I was the owner of a queen-sized waterbed. I don’t remember how this happened (although I like to imagine it was a Princess & the Pea scenario), but regardless, it was mine.
When picking out my new bed, I decided I wanted more floor space. And the best way to accomplish this was to downsize my bed.
Now it would have been one thing to go for a full. This would still be an acceptable bed size for adult Christine, but it would be small enough to give me some additional dance space in my current room. However, stupid me decided to take the plunge and get a twin.
My mom tried for weeks to talk me out of it. She kept reminding me that this would be my furniture when I moved out. She tried to convince me that I would never be able to fit the 8 pillows I had been accustomed to sleeping with into such a small bed.
I didn’t listen.
All my friends had twin-sized beds and plenty of room for activities in their rooms. All I could do when I had friends over was lay in my bed making prank phone calls to the boys we liked.
The twin bed was my final decision. The day it arrived, it looked way smaller than it had in the catalogue. Luckily, I was tiny and could fit in with plenty of room to spare.
Eight years later and I wish I could go back in time and kick myself in the face. After two years of on-campus living with twin-sized beds, I finally moved off and got to experience my first big bed in years. I was spoiled. When I came home, even though my familiar twin bed was still comfy with lots of pillows and blankets, it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t sleep on a diagonal angle or in any of the weird positions I had become accustomed to.
I recently asked my mom why she let me get the stupid tiny bed instead of a grown-up one. She told me it had been my decision and now I have to live with it. I secretly think it was her attempt to prevent me from fitting a boy in with me. Let’s just say that was a failed attempt and a story for another time.