I leave the bed unmade

I have a penchant for leaving the bed unmade.

They say making your bed is the right way to start your day. To that, I have things to say.

Who is this ‘they’? Who started this whole culture of manic productivity? Is this the same ‘they’ that popularized that narrow-minded phrase “pull yourself up by your bootstraps”? Because if it is, I have no interest in listening to ‘them’.

Who decided that the right way to start your day was to convert your bed from a soft, forgiving sanctuary to a neat, unapproachable rectangle that screams “we are never ever ever getting back together” (Taylor Swift voice included)?  What is this PSA to the world that tucking in corners, smoothing out surfaces, and fluffing up pillows was the right way to start your day?

Who needs that self-masochism first thing in the morning?

Is it so I feel guilty to get back in, ruining the tucked-in corners, smoothed-out surfaces, and fluffed-up pillows? Is it to invoke the same kind of guilt I feel when I start poking my fork into a beautifully arranged meal? See, I don’t need that. People are already so tucked in and beautifully arranged every day, not a hair out of place nor a trace of dirt underneath their fingernails. It’s discouraging to behold and exhausting to conform to. I am mentally sighing as I write this.

We are always so focused on industry and measurable self-improvement that it has become unforgiving of flaws and the beautiful humanity of just letting things be. Why would I make my bed? Some of the most self-restorative activities I and many other humans need take place in a bed: I sleep, read, and make love in a bed. I confide to my partner in a bed. I cry in my bed. So why, in the name of all that is good and compassionate, would I make it? Does it need to be made? Does all trace of my bodily imprint need to be swept away every morning, like a secret to be ashamed of?

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Does this image make you feel uncomfortable?

No. No, I don’t need that.

I’m going to get up, and savor every wrinkle in the sheets and every disheveled dune of fabric. I’m going to trust that when I need it again — whether it’s 12pm or 12am— it will take me back with no guilt or effort on my part, ready to take in every flawed part of me.


Daily Post prompt: Penchant

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Refuge

She unlocked the door, peeled off her layers, and removed her bra. It’s 6:30, and the might of the day has placed itself on the other side of those hinges. She wasn’t a champion of anything anymore, no — in that space of stucco and stains, she was just herself, reclaiming herself. On her naked floor, she walked around unclothed. The only face she saw was her own in the mirror, pensive and undemanding of her time and energy. In fact, nothing in this world was demanding anything of her right now. Even her newly treated apartment windows dappled the hazy evening light, as if the very building itself understood — she needed things diluted at this very moment.

Bare-bodied, skin left raw to the air, just free to close her eyes, close her thighs, close her mind, she slips on her gratitude. Thank you, she thinks. Thank you for surviving this day.


Daily Post prompt: Champion