Confession

The owner of this bed shall remain anonymous to protect the guilty

They say confession is good for the soul.
My soul could use a little boost, so here goes:
I am not a bed-maker.
To those who know me well (Hi, Mom!) this will come as no great surprise.
Despite my mother's best efforts, I have never been a bed-maker.
I like how a nicely-made bed looks, of course.  And I don't mind when someone else makes mine for me.  But it just isn't something that makes my daily to-do list.
I've never quite understood why bed-making is considered such a virtue, though I have suffered from embarrassment a time or two when my messy mattress has been viewed by others.
That's social conditioning for you.
I used to make my bed as a kid, but only because I had to.  As soon as I had a little more freedom, that was one of the first things to go.
One summer at my grandma's, I must have been 12 or 13, she apparently couldn't stand my messiness any longer.  Grandma asked my Aunt Ruthie to pick up after me. I remember an embarrassment so acute it manifested in a heady dose of adolescent anger.  I've always been embarrassed that Aunt Ruthie, the Queen of Neat (rumor has it she used to iron her sheets), saw my slovenly ways.
You see, not only do I not make my bed, but I often don't put my clothes away at night.  And sometimes, not very often mind you, I don't shut my dresser drawers, either.
After a couple days of this, my bedroom can start looking pretty messy.  It's usually about then that I reach my tolerance limit for disarray and I tidy up.
But I still don't make my bed.
My husband is out of the country this week.  I must admit, when he's away, I slide a little further down disheveled drive.  We have a king size bed, which comes in handy for our nightly cat slumber parties. There's usually plenty of room for 3 or 4 or more cats, my husband, and myself.
But when he not here, I tend to nest.
It's handy to keep both TV remotes on his side, along with a couple of magazines, my Kindle, tissues, bathrobe, lip balm, and whatever else I might want nearby.
And though I love him dearly, it's kind of frustrating to give up my little snuggery to make room for him when he comes home.
Fortunately, my husband isn't a neat freak. And, um, neither are my kids.
I'll apologize right now to my future sons- and daughters-in-law.
I don't equate non-bed-making with laziness.  It just isn't a priority.   
I think I might be the only one of my three sisters who doesn't regularly make her bed.
I've made peace with my untidy ways.
Sorry, Mom.  
Three out of four isn't bad.