I used to detest sharing a bed with someone else. Of course, part of that may have stemmed from multiple attempts to squeeze a hulk-ish college athlete into one of those ridiculous polly pocket-sized twin beds at school. But even post-college, when I upgraded to a queen mattress and didn’t have to wedge my body against another like a swollen puzzle piece, I hated having someone invade my personal space at such a sacred time.
Sound sleep always felt like a gift; like the ultimate luxury at the end of a long and stressful day. Under the covers with just a book for company, I savored my alone time.
While men were certainly good for all the stuff leading up to slumber, I never wanted to sacrifice my time in bed for someone with hairy legs, grabby hands, and sharp toenails.
Yet, I reluctantly tolerated it for years.
I think a lot of us do. As a pseudo grown-up living on your own, there’s this assumption that sleeping together is the default in any “adult” relationship. It’s the normal thing to do. Knowing this, I never felt like I could admit to boyfriends just how little I liked them in between my sheets.
But then, having someone in my bed stopped being a given.
There was break up #1, then #2, then #3. Existing as one half of a happy couple was no longer my status quo. I spent days and then weeks and then months alone. Floating through every day without my “person” supporting me, I began to miss having a bedtime buddy.
Suddenly, that empty bed felt cavernous. And lonely. And then, fucking insulting.
The cold left side of the Queen was a nightly reminder that no one wanted to be there. No one wanted to join me. I was ultimately too much of a pain to deal with in daily life to be a worthwhile nighttime partner. And sure, I’m a lady, with lady parts, and there are plenty of things guys want from me in the bedroom. But as someone to sleep next to? I guess I’m not that kind of girl.