For the past three nights, I have been floating on air. Thank you, thank you, thank you to my brother and sister-in-law who called Friday: Did I want their practically brand-new guest bed, which was being kicked out in favor of more play area for their kids?

Um. Yes.

Of course, with a 70-year-old house, it’s never quite that easy. The entire production took two days and involved cutting off one of my stairs, sawing the entire box spring in half, folding it like a taco, and reassembling it in my room—with more nails and screws than it had in the first place. Which means that if I ever sell this house, I’ll basically be selling it with the queen-sized bed that is now sitting proudly in my attic bedroom.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t complaining about my cute little double bed. But now I’ve realized that I’ve been sleeping with my long legs hanging off the end of my bed for, oh, about 7 years.

So for the past three nights, I feel like I’ve been floating. My entire body starts and stays on top of a big, high, fluffy mattress.

For the entire night.