For the first time ever in my life, I actually bought myself a nice bed. Between the bed frame, the mattress set, and all the new bedding I bought for it, I easily spent upwards of $1,700 (which made me a little queasy at first until I realized my Macbook cost me around that much too, good grief) and well, it was worth every penny let me tell ya.

I have a lot of pleasant memories about lounging in comfortable beds. When I was younger, there was my grandmother’s white four poster bed, with its soft mattress and wash-worn sheets, where every morning my cousin and I plotted what trouble we’d get into for the rest of that particular summer day. And there were the firmer twin beds at our great-grandmother’s down the road, perfect for midday naps because the room they were in was out of the direct sunlight. We’d lay there with the window all the way open to capture any bit of a breeze, an oscillating fan whirring in the corner for soothing white noise, lulled into that luscious place between drowsy and dead to the world.

During the final years of my marriage, our heated pedestal waterbed was like a personal womb, floating and warm, and I remember how I’d let out a deep sigh every time I climbed in it at night; and how I’d almost cry when I had to leave it again in the morning. (And the fact that I resented so much having to share it with my then husband was probably a solid predictor of the divorce to come.)

It was so, so hard for me to leave that waterbed behind when I moved 40 miles away to begin my new single life. Unfortunately, money was tight, and I could only afford a cheap mattress with nothing but a metal frame. I did what I could to make it comfortable, by adding a featherbed cover and sheets with the highest thread count I could afford at the time, but still, I hated it.

That meant for six years, I was miserable without a bed that comforted me – and even though by a few years in, I could have upgraded to something better, by then I hated my apartment so much that I couldn’t bear the thought of “ruining” the aura of a brand new bed by bringing it into a place which didn’t feel like my home anymore.

So, I found substitute beds to love.

There were those belonging to the men with whom I was having sex. I’ve been lucky enough to fall for guys who have great taste in bedding, and many of my best memories of these relationships involve cuddling in soft sheets under cozy comforters. (I wonder sometimes if the sadness I inevitably felt as I drove off was from having to leave the man behind – or was it the loss of his bed which I was actually mourning?)

There were those at the hotel next door to the club I frequented every weekend, which offered the perfect sleeping environment: heavy curtains that could be closed for total darkness, an A/C which could be set to freezing, pillows with the right amount of squish. Sigh.

But now, I finally have a bed which touches my soul every night when I climb into it. You just can’t put a price on that feeling.