Size Does Matter

As long as I am telling embarrassing stories, this is my husband’s favorite. But I get to at least tell some of my own perspective on it.

When we were first together, my husband had his captain’s water bed from his childhood room. It was a long twin-bed-sized box on top of another box with drawers. The bed was wider than the drawers, so there was a foot or two overhang on both sides. We had the bed pressed up against the wall, which created a cubby that could be accessed from the floor at the foot of the bed.

I used to lie on the bed and press my face against the wall to peek into that space below. I really like small spaces and I was pretty sure that this one would be perfect for me. I guess this is when the whole phenomena of my body being bigger than I think it is began. So I got stuck.

This is where my husband usually begins the story. He tells of hearing his name being called in a muffled tone and being sorely confused as to its possible source. He tells of searching the apartment, hunting for whatever could be calling out his name—like that was some big mystery. It isn’t as though there were a whole lot of people in the place.

Anyhow, he finally found me and pulled me out between laughing fits. It still galls me that I couldn’t get in and out of there more easily. As long as we had that bed, I continued to peek down from and imagine how lovely it would be to snuggle into that little spot.