Everyone who lives in a Boston apartment has to have a loft bed. So says my youngest, headed there for grad school. Lots of pictures the kid has to back this up. The rooms are so small, she wouldn’t even be able to have a chest for her clothing or a desk if we don’t find a loft bed.
So, to Etsy we go. And order something probably intended for an 8 year old boy. As loft beds go, it is beautiful and sturdy. I suggested she hire a handyman in advance of the proposed delivery date. Because she values my sage advice (or because she has no tools and no clue), she does.
Delivery day: my 22 year old kid, her male roommate she is just meeting in person, and the handyman work together to get this thing (literally and figuratively) off the ground. Once assembled, she climbs up to the bed. There is about a foot of clearance between her body and the ceiling. Total quiet for several seconds. Then the kid announces “Well, looks like I am committed to celibacy.” “Ma’am, I was just thinking..” says the handyman she just met.
So there’s that. Plus discovering that the door won’t open or close due to the steps being in the way, so they had to go. Which means jumping for the frame and pulling herself up to the bed. There were many misses after nights out at the bars. And her dog, used to sleeping with her, now perplexed on the ground. And, every so often, when the subject came up with new friends- quizzical looks and some version of “Tell me again where you got that idea?”.
Almost a year later, the loft bed found a new owner. Coincidentally, an 8 year old boy. Flea (nickname, another story) has a normal frame for her mattress. And the dog is happy.