Thursday, February 3, 2011
I tried to figure out the source of this particular gaseous emanation from the volcano of science, but when I Googled "making your bed makes you happier" I got a pittance of information on bedmaking and a plethora of advice on how to please my wife. Since I don't have a wife, this was less than 100% useful. So you will just have to take my word for it that the source of the rumor, like the sentient alien jumpsuit-clad empath, is out there somewhere.
I'm not a bed-maker, but I AM an inveterate tilter at the windmills of happiness, so I thought, hey, why not? Especially since last winter's purchase of a down-filled comforter means that all I have to do to make the bed is pull the thing up toward the pillows. Laziness AND happiness in one pneumatic menage a trois? WIN!
I tried it, but I forecasted failure. I figured that making the bed, and thus symbolically denying myself the mythical midday nap/ noontime novel devouring, would depress me. An unmade bed, this logic goes, is like an invitation to a really great party you hang on your refrigerator. Your chance to samba til dawn may be weeks a way, but doggone it, you're envisioning it now!
Only, instead of engendering deprivation, making the bed filled me with pleasant, priggish complacency. It was as if I'd sat on one of those artificial glove warmers and was subsequently perfused by a mild chemical coziness. I may not have written a novel or saved the universe or won the Nobel Prize, but by golly, I had WREAKED MY WILL UPON THE WORLD.
I think I've been made.