The Bed

My bed and I aren’t speaking, and it is Feng Shui’s fault.

Let me start by saying that I’m not a big believer in the practice of Feng Shui. I read a story about a guy who lost his job because of his strict adherence to the principles. It took him two hours to get to work every day because he refused to make turns in a particular direction. Seems to me the direction he was headed in wasn’t all that great either.

I know a girl who wholeheartedly believes in Feng Shui—she has many books on the subject to prove it. You would see them if you visited her because she’s a hoarder, and they are probably stacked and blocking the entryway as I type.

Despite this, I’m starting to think that I need to review the rules again because if anyone has a wastebasket in their love/marriage/relationship corner, it has got to be me. In fact, it feels like my apartment building’s dumpsters are in my relationship corner. Seriously, I’m betting that the random garbage belonging to 300 people is choking the life out of my relationship corner. I wonder if I can get the city to move the dumpsters. It’s probably not the strangest request they’ve ever gotten. In all likelihood, it’s not even the strangest request they have gotten this week.

But even though I’ve now decided to banish all the waste bins from all the corners of my world (because, really, I don’t want my prosperity corner to take a hit either), I’m still left with the bed conundrum. And it’s not the standard question that everyone asks every day: are my feet pointing in the right direction to bring harmony to the world? I mean, that’s obvious. The pioneers even asked that one.

Apparently, you aren’t supposed to have anything under your bed. If you have stuff under your bed, it blocks the flow of energy. If the love energy isn’t flowing in tornadic fashion, you’re screwed (or, evidently, not). It’s obvious that the person who came up with these love energy rules was not a single woman living in a tiny apartment with an entire lifetime of “woulda”, “coulda” and “shoulda”, not to mention “will-look-great-once-I-own-a-home-a” stored there. But if I pull the stuff out from under my bed, then I’m blocking some other energy passageway in my “earth” space.

And there is one more problem: if stuff under a bed creates a problem, what kind of energy blocking occurs when you bought the bed with The Ex in the first place? That can’t be good, right? Do I need to perform some sort of bed exorcism? Get a medicine man in here to cleanse the bed? This is Los Angeles, that service is probably listed in the yellow pages (do you think it’s under household items or spiritual growth?).

So, it’s obvious, my lack of love life is actually not my fault at all. It’s the bed’s fault. And it’s Feng Shui’s fault. Clearly. It’s the possessed bed of love life past that probably even has a wastebasket under it, and is obviously in the wrong corner thus point my feet into a deranged, solitary future, and it’s cursing all my current prospects. There are probably tens of … uh.. well, ten men… or one man that has woken up and thought “today is the day that I will finally meet the Kate of my dreams”, but instead, I wake up in the cursed bed and ruin it all.

Exorcism it is.

What do you mean buy a new bed? That would just be weird.



Kate, who is currently blaming her bruised tailbone on the possessed, bad feng shui bed

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