{bedside manner} oh, if my nightstand could tell stories…

You know what they say about relationships: it’s the little things. Which, at the almost-three-year mark, I’ve found still to be true.

When the boyfriend and I first moved into his city apartment I had to switch sides in the bedroom. WHICH put me, basically, on the wall. Upon moving to Pittsburgh, our downtown loft gave us a bit of a challenge in terms of bed placement (stupid giant headboard). Which meant no nightstand… again. So, when we started the process of house hunting, I squeed a bit on the inside, with the (empty) promise of a bedroom large enough for the (stupid giant) King bed… and finally, my own bed-side staging area.

See, after years of being on my own, I had grown used to having my own side table, for the inevitable bouts of insomnia and easy access to all the items that get me through it — do you understand it’s been almost THREE YEARS since I’ve had a place for a lamp/book/chapstick/Icy Hot/water at my bedside?!

A PLACE FOR MY PHONE, SO IT’S NOT UNDERNEATH MY PILLOW GIVING ME BRAIN TUMORS.

And then we found THE house.

Which contained just enough wall for the stupid giant bed. I thought that perhaps I would be switching sides again, so as to get the window side of the bed and its giant window sill — I mean, it IS the closest to the wall, which is seemingly My Spot. Alas, the boyfriend claimed it.

But then, on a wayward trip to Robinson, the boyfriend brought home a nightstand…

Do you SEE the wall space I was working with here?!

And life — in times of love and insomnia — was good.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.