My mother was a pretty chaotic person, and after my father died and she returned to work, our constantly changing series of living spaces grew increasingly messy. We couldn’t afford a house cleaner, and anyway people like that clean — they don’t generally pick up. My mother would return from work around six in the evening, drop her things wherever, change into her nightgown, and set herself up in bed with the TV news on, the papers around her, and her supper on her lap. Wendy and I usually ate our TV dinners in the sunroom, watching our other set.
I came out of that experience insisting on a fanatically clean car, an orderly home, and a made bed. I was thinking about that this morning, as I made my bed immediately upon getting out of it. Even though I live in a very open loft-style apartment — my bedroom has only three walls and is the first thing you see when you come through the door from the hallway — not many people see my bed. My friends and I typically go out rather than come to each other’s homes. I could leave my bed unmade for a week and no one would probably know.
Clearly a made bed signifies something important for me, even after all these years, whether or not anyone else is around to judge or comment.
Do you make your bed? Why or why not? No judgment — I’m just curious to know.