Last night, Devon and I were talking about the kind of house we want and the decor, and I said I’d like to downgrade to a queen-size bed because it would give us more room. He defended having a king-size bed because he likes being able to stay the fuck away from me.
I’m paraphrasing, but not by much.It was during this conversation that I learned that he had a queen-size waterbed in high school. It’s important to note that without knowing that we were both laughing through most of the following conversation, we sound like the world’s biggest dick-faced weasels. And we probably are. But at least we have each other.
Devon: I had a queen-size bed when I was a teenager. It was a waterbed.
Me: You did not.
Devon: I did. What’s wrong with that?
Me: No kid has a queen-size waterbed. I don’t believe you.
Devon: I did. And three closets. It was great.
Me: I don’t know how you didn’t realize you were upper middle class.
Devon: My bedroom was only 200 square feet. And the closets were small. I wasn’t like those rich kids.
Me: Fuck off. Did you put in an in-ground pool next to the bed?
Devon: Before that, I had a two-room bedroom in the basement, with my own bathroom. But the bathroom was in the laundry room.
Me: Poor baby. How did you survive having to haul yourself into the laundry room to pee?
Devon: My mom moved down to the main level when she got too sick to climb the stairs. I moved upstairs a few years after she died. I had a lot of advantages as a kid. Except for the dead-mom thing.
Me: Ooooh! Whipping out the dead mom! Feel the burn! But at least you had a waterbed. I’m sure that made up for it.
Devon: It would have been awesome if I’d been able to get laid.
Me: I’d think having a queen-size waterbed would have helped with that.
Devon: It’s not the meat, baby, it’s the motion. In a waterbed, it’s allllll motion.
Me: I can’t imagine how you didn’t get laid.