There is a saying that those who cannot remember the past are destined to repeat it. My life is basically a movie trailer of Bill Murray's "Groundhog's Day" except, unlike him, I don't eventually catch on and learn how to improve my situation. The softball-sized bruise on my leg and the newly-installed 8-foot dog ramp in my bedroom are a testament to that.
Once upon a time, a newly married Amy Mosiman went out into the world to buy a bed. Waterbeds were to the 80s what memory foam is to the (20)10s. So this gullible Goldilocks wanders into a waterbed store and learns that all sizes are the same price. SCORE! As "Emperor" or "Czar" didn't exist, Goldilocks purchased a "King." The king of her castle, away on military maneuvers, was not too thrilled to discover, upon his arrival home, that his dresser now resided in the hall, the doors on his closet had been removed, and that there was no workable floor space at all in his bedroom. "We'll never have to vacuum in there," his blushing bride pointed out optimistically as she watched her husband balance on the stormy seas of their bed, trying to access his freshly-ironed (from a helpful shop off-base) uniform.
Fast-forward twenty years. Goldilocks-with-a-hint-of-gray is again in need of a bed. Bearing in mind (hee hee) that her bedroom is small, she was only looking to replace, not up-grade, her existing queen-sized bed. After flopping around on a dozen or so models, she made her decision and hurried home, excited about the anticipated delivery. Removing the old bedding, the workmen stood by patiently while Goldilocks frantically vacuumed the vacated spot. Untouched for twenty years, it was an archaeological landmine of lost socks and dog toys. Construction began until, soon enough, Goldilocks was called in for inspection. "Beautiful," she said, admiring the tasteful sleigh-bed frame she'd selected. But then she frowned. "How am I suppose to close the bathroom door," she asked, noticing it trapped against the wall by the bed that now filled her bedroom. "You're not," her heroes informed her before heading off to fulfill some other maiden's furniture fantasy.
"Oh no," groaned Goldilocks-with-a-hint-of-gray, "what am I going to tell Brad. Brad, now known as Papa Bear, was again away, this time on a SCUBA diving excursion with Sydney to celebrate her recent graduation. "Help me with this," Goldilocks said desperately, squeezing between the bed and the wall in a futile effort to free up the door. With an engineer's calculated eye, her daughter Savannah informed her mother that it was a lost cause whereupon Goldilocks flopped down on the bed in a fit on uncontrolled weeping.
So Papa Bear came home and was surprisingly silent as he viewed his bedroom and weighed his options. Moving out was crossed off the list because he couldn't access his clothes. "It's not so bad once you get used to it," his blushing bride said optimistically, demonstrating the ease of squeezing herself out the door by promptly banging her leg for the millionth time on the bedpost. He spotted the dog sitting on the floor. "Why isn't Chloe on the bed," he asked tiredly. "It's too tall for her so I just lift her up," Goldilocks said cheerfully.
The period of re-construction began (oops, sorry...I changed literary genres. We've transitioned from fairy tale to historical fiction. Who am I now...Scarlett Gray-in-the-Hara?). Brad effortlessly removed the door from its hinges while I swooned. "Why I declare," I trilled softly, fanning myself, "I didn't know a door could removed like that." Because there isn't a single right angle in this house, several hours were dedicated to sanding and "shimming" to re-set the door on the opposite side. To be helpful and supportive, I begged Brad to explain the process of "shimming" to me until he finally asked me to just please be quiet. Door in place, Brad cancelled my planned christening. "Put away the bottle of champagne," he ordered as I choked up on the neck and prepared to swing.
Debates about the dog ramp lasted well into the night. To minimize space, Brad's original design used less wood but would require the dachshund to have a running start of at least an eighth of a mile. "She's not trained in parkour," I argued, inadvertently transitioning to realistic fiction (sorry Readers). Brad sighed with resignation but went to work.Voilà! With some coaxing and strategically-placed doggie treats, Chlo was soon trotting confidently up her 8-foot long ramp and jumping on the bed.
This is it, right? What are the odds that, twenty years from now, I will be buying yet another bed too big for my bedroom? I've got the "doomed to repeat it" part down to a sick science. I've got to learn to apply the Goldilocks principle and, armed with a measuring tape, find a bed that is "just right." Until then, I will just have to live with the consequences of my decision. "Brad," I said forlornly, "I can't make the bed easily with that 8-foot dog ramp in the way." He looked at me quietly with one eyebrow raised. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
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