Earthquake. I was in bed, tucked snugly between my pillows, laptop in hand, and it suddenly felt like somebody was pushing against the wall behind me, jostling the back of the bed.
I remembered why I don’t sleep naked in L.A. Ironically, the post I was starting to write was just about how much I am aching to be back “home” already. Don’t get me wrong. I really love L.A. and would live here if we could afford a place with the kind of space we have at our house in Lover, PA. It’s just that I’m ready to be back with Kurt and Baxter again.
This hotel has those fancy-schmancy sleep number beds, but I can’t ever find what seems like a “normal” setting. I either wake up Gumby-like, sunken into the floor, or I have bruises from what seem to be boards beneath me. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, since I’ll be returning to a strange apartment on a leaky air mattress from which we wake up in a taco.
Hyperbole aside, I’ve noticed that my hotel sleeping has become more elaborate the longer I’m away. I construct nests out of pillows, creating makeshift body pillows on either side of me. It’s the only way I can sleep. When there aren’t enough pillows on the bed, I request more, pull the extra blanket from the closet, set the room temperature so I won’t need a blanket and bundle those up as well.
It isn’t the same, but it helps.
Although we have a permanent house south of Pittsburgh, “home” for me will always be wherever Kurt is. It’s an interesting life being on the move so much, and you learn to focus on the positive adventures it brings.
Everyone knows of the two of us I’m traveler, but even I have my limits. This time, I passed it a week ago. I’m road-weary and ready to replace this hotel bed blanket nest with a Kurt pillow. Heck, I might even invite the dog up and make it a Kurt & Baxter sandwich.
What an air mattress taco that’s gonna’ make!