On Friday my friend M moved into The World's Most Adorable Studio Apartment in the heart of Dupont Circle. Aside from the absence of a dishwasher, it's the most perfect living situation a small-ish single person could hope to find.
I envy M's sleeping space: A walled-in nook with a curtained doorway and a little window in the wall, and fitting just-so inside is a large mattress on top of a four-foot-high platform. You call it a bed; I call it a fort, and I've spent the last 14 hours thinking how I can make it happen in my own apartment. I probably wouldn't go so far as to call my contractor, but I may start collecting blankets, chairs, dry goods and other makings of a good old-fashioned hideout.
My sleeping style says a lot about my personality, I think: I like to curl up by myself in a large bed, but I have to push that bed into a corner -- or better yet, inside a nook like M's -- so I've got breathing room in my immediate space and closeness on the perimeter. It infuriated me when my ex-boyfriend S crept over to my side of his king-size bed. He would hold onto me in his sleep so I'd wake up sweating two, three, four times each night. But on the rare occasions when he kept his distance I was soothed by the sound of his breathing two feet away. Close, but not touching. That's what I like. It probably indicates some brand of crazy but I dare not delve any deeper than that.
After I took M to the grocery store to stock her fridge I paused before pulling out of the parking lot. "Is there an Apple store nearby? I need to go exchange a birthday present."
M looked at me like I was nuts. "What are you talking about? We just walked out of Harris Teeter two minutes ago."
I stared at her for a second until it clicked: "No, Apple. Like Macintosh. Computer. I need another case for my iPod."
"Oh my God," M groaned, and put her forehead in her hand. "What kind of old foagie am I that I still think Apple is a fruit?"