Recently, I realized I had arrived at adulthood.
No, it wasn’t when I paid my first rent check or when I finally made my first pot of coffee. It wasn’t even when I planted my first garden.
I arrived at adulthood when I discovered I made my bed each morning.
It must have been a process, but I don’t exactly remember when it started or how it changed. But during my childhood, there was an ongoing fight that usually went like this:
Mom: Al, turn the TV off and make your bed.
Daughter: Uh huh, sure mom.
Dad: Make your bed before you leave for school.
Daughter: uh huh, sure.
Mom & Dad: MAKE YOUR BED!
…And so it went. My childhood was passing and my bed was rarely made. Yet, somewhere along the journey of life, this changed. Now, in my own house, I wake up earlier than five minutes before class begins. I enjoy these mornings. I wake up, start the coffee, and make my bed. Every day. That’s the way it goes.
Maybe this is insignificant to those of you who appreciate a spotless house. Personally, I can handle a floor covered in clothes, dishes filling the sink, and blankets strewn throughout the house. Until I want to be productive, that is. If I want to write a paper in my room, the entire house has to be clean. So don’t mind me while I thoroughly clean the house just to do homework.
Regardless, my bed is always made. Somehow I tolerate the rest of the mess, but not my bed. At first I thought my bed had to be made to not tempt me to crawl back into it. Then, I realized this is what it looks like to be an adult. As a preteen, my bed was never made. As a teenager, my bed was never made. As a freshman in college, my bed was never made. As a senior is college, my bed is made.
It’s as if my bed screams “Now you’re an adult,” every morning.
And I’m not sure if I like it.