Abigail M. Schilling

I was at a "estate sale" which is, apparently, only a fancy word for a really big garage sale with a lot of crap belonging to someone dead. I was there because an "extra long twin bed" had been advertised.

After developing a system for the past two years to fit onto my normal sized (read: way too short) bed, I was ready for an upgrade. Not to say my system wasn't top notch:
Rule 1: Never have a foot board.
Rule 2: Always move the mattress about eight inches down.
Rule 3: Shove a pillow into the newly-formed crevice, thus extending the mattress.

So, I journeyed to the "estate sale" with my 6'5'' coworker because he has a truck and likes to buy stuff from formerly alive old people, and inquired about the "extra long twin bed."

"For your extra-long husband?" some garage estate sale coordinator asked me, gesturing at the coworker.

Oh, it's awkward.

"Nope!" I responded, quietly setting aside the bitterness I feel when someone assumes I'm married. "I'm extra long!"

Unruffled, coordinator dude insisted, "but your husband is extra long!"

Bitterness growing, PEOPLE I AM NOT MARRIED, I said, "not my husband!" My voice went up at the end so I didn't sound totally mean and the guy, maybe feeling a little awkward at this point, accepted our status, ignored it, and said, "but he is extra long!"

That he is, now give me my bed.

In the end I got my bed and it's changed my life. Me and my feet can lay on the bed at the same time. Sometimes, even, me and my feet and Patrick can fit. And I just don't understand how being married could be better than that.