The day I step out of my mother's house will be the last day I make my bed. This futile chore has plagued me since early childhood. As soon as my feet hit the floor every morning, I would turn around and start struggling with the covers. Never daring to leave a pillow unfluffed or a blanket wrinkled, I diligently made my bed for years. And don't get me wrong, I won the parent lottery. My folks are nice people; they just have this strange passion for making our house, specifically my room, look like something out of Southern Living magazine.
During my teenage years busy schedules and decreased surveillance by my parents has lessened the burden to where I only make it when I'm told at least once. Perhaps someday I will learn to appreciate the futile act of making the bed only to get back in it at day's end, but until then I will resist.
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