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The year was 1984. I had met and married my husband in 6 days. (He was on leave from the Marine Corps, had to be back on base in North Carolina in a week and was determined to take me with him.) I stuffed clothes, shoes and jewelry in black trash bags ..crammed as much as I could in the back of his Datsun 280ZX and off we went.

I’d just turned 20 and was journeying into the unknown. Married to a man I hardly knew, leaving home for a brand new life. His family was shocked. My mother was hysterical. I was young and in love… life was good!

Until we pulled into his rental bachelor pad down south. The house was small… and bright turquoise. Inside and out. Not his color of choice, but he didn’t change it either which speaks volumes. It had all the prerequisite bachelor ecoutrements…. plywood and cement blocks entertainment center, mismatched thrift store chairs, beach towels in the bathroom. But as awful as that was? I was undeterred. Men are works in progress, I could rebuild him.

And then I walked into the bedroom.

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Not my picture, but it could be. I ignored the fact my man only had one pot and 2 plates in his kitchen cupboard. I turned a blind eye to the boot stand made from a power line wooden spool. I shrugged off the dented foot locker coffee table. But a waterbed? That I would actually have to sleep on? That was a bridge too far.

The husband didn’t mind with me filling his kitchen and bathroom with appropriate items. He encouraged me to buy new furniture and paint the walls a less objectionable color. But he loved that abominable liquid monstrosity and refused to give it up.

We lived in the sea sickness inducing bachelor pad for 8 months and then bought our first home. It was considerably larger than his extremely shabby and not so chic rental abode so we purchased a dining room set, an office suite and den furniture. We built a deck and loaded it with porch furniture, a fire pit and a grill. It was great! Until I realized we had run out of money before we reached the bedroom.

I spent another year sleeping on that horrible rubber life raft but my husband still balked every time I broached the subject of replacing it. I dreaded going to sleep at night. Every time the husband rolled over, a wave rippled under me. It was bizarre.

And then one night, Morpheus smiled upon me.

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No, not that one.

The God of Sleep heard my prayers and we both woke up shivering at 3:00am. For those who don’t know, you can’t just fill a waterbed and call it good. There’s a heating mechanism under the mattress that keeps the water warm. You can’t sleep on cold water, it will draw out your body heat in an attempt to level the temperature difference. And that’s just what the last vestige of my husband’s bachelorhood did.

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The heater broke, the water temperature dropped and we were shivering popsicles by morning. I was ecstatic! The husband was bereft. I did a happy dance of epic proportions. The husband may have wept.

We stripped the bed, siphoned out the water…. not a small task…. and discovered that not only had the heater ceased to heat, it had completely burned out and scorched the wooden frame beneath, dropping burnt ash on the carpet. I suppose being burned to death by a waterbed is technically impossible since the flames would eventually be extinguished by the burst of water…. but that’s a wood fire- burning rubber- electrical nightmare I’d rather not be slumbering on thank you very much.

The waterbed went bye bye and I said good riddance. I really wish I could find the picture I took of the husband that morning. (pre digital so there’s no telling where it could be) We were curling up the rubber mattress to push the last bit of water out the hose and he was sitting in the corner, desolate, head in hand… watching the last drop (literally) of his single life go out the window (literally).

Good times.

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