I do not make the bed. Except on the rare occasion when the sheets and the duvet cover are all clean and everything smells like bounce freshener sheets which compels deep within me this irresistible urge to be wrapped up tightly and covered with cheese (yes, much like an empanada), except that the cheese is bounce fresh linens and all of this is happening on my bed. When the ends of the sheets are gripped by the mattress bottom, they tug my down snugly so I can’t escape. The comforter and the pillows pile on top of me in a perfectly made bed, making a cave that I could sleep in for days. Ahh.
When the bed does get made, I compulsively hotel-tuck the corners of the bed sheets, though I do not do it well, and it’s only a night or two before the sheet is shamefully hanging on the ground from my big toe. I do not, 361 days out of the year, make the bed (don’t worry, I wash my sheets more often than quarterly). I see no point in making something that we are planning on jumping in, in just a matter of hours, to roll around in and mess up again. It’s a silly cycle. No one needs my bed to be made. My husband’s not a bed-maker; I am not a bed-maker. We are both, conveniently, bed messer-uppers, so there should be no fussing or turn-taking. Only sleeping and reading and snuggling and no making of any kind.
We come out of crumpled sheets and go into crumpled sheets and they are always comfortable and sometimes clean-ish. That’s quite enough in this household, thank you.