“Yeah, tell me about it,” laughed my friend Courtney sympathetically.
“What’s empty bed syndrome?” I asked curiously, pretty sure that I knew, but wanting to clarify because Anne was constantly coining new phrases.
“It’s how sometimes all you want is a warm body to cuddle with, especially when you’re used to having one—and when you don’t you really miss it, you know?” she replied.
No, actually I didn’t know. As a 23-year-old virgin I’d never really had a relationship. Sure, as a single girl in New York City I’d had a string of brief flings. But despite some flirting and making out the intimacy was never really there. I’d held out for so long, I was in no rush to break my chastity vow. I was once even referred to as a prude (that’s the general response you get when, after getting pleasured you refuse to reciprocate and fall into a deep, comfortable sleep). But that was okay by me, because even though said name-caller was attractive I wasn’t really interested in him—definitely not enough to jeopardize my “V Club” status. My new, plush pillow-top mattress was my pride and joy, and I wanted it all to myself. But then Adam came along. He liked my comfortable bed too—in fact, he jokingly referred to it as my “man snare.” Adam was my first “real” relationship, and my first certifiable boyfriend. He was the coworker of a friend of mine from college, and I met him at one of their after-work hangouts. That night, I beat him in pool (which isn’t saying much about his game, because I can barely hold a cue stick), he told me his favorite book was Catcher in the Rye (I pointed out that the novel is also popular among serial killers), and he asked me if I was into porn (no comment). Not a particularly redeeming chain of events, but he was tall (I’m 5’7", so this was a definite plus) and cute and once I got past his sarcastic, hardened exterior I realized he was a total goofball like me.
Case in point: After getting my number, he left the bar—only to walk back in the pouring rain moments later to ask for it again because he’d accidentally misentered it into his cell phone. He later walked me home, hanging on my every word, and promptly called a couple days later to ask me out. From there, it was an innocent, storybook romance. Though he was no virgin like me, Adam was nearly as clueless, if not more so, in the relationship department. After a coffee-and-park first date, we proceeded to a movie date where while walking to catch me a ride home he stopped mid-stride: “Can I kiss you?” he asked shyly, hands in pockets, as we stood facing each other on the street corner, an impatient cab driver waiting to whisk me away. I told him that, yes, he could, so we each removed our respective pieces of gum—awkwardly tossing the chewed-up wads in a nearby trash bin—and nervously but anxiously turned back toward each other. His kiss was sweet (literally, thanks to the gum) and for a moment the world melted away. It was during that split second I realized this wouldn’t just be another fling. This could be the real deal.
For awhile, it was just that. He was a second-year investment banker and worked constantly but made a point to call me every evening. We’d talk for hours about anything and everything and saw each other steadily about every other day during the first two months even though I lived on the Upper East Side and he resided in the East Village (which, in Manhattan, is like living on two different continents). I felt comfortable in the relationship. Comfortable enough that for my 24th birthday I told him I wanted to have sex. “Oh God, I’m the one-minute man,” he laughed after a surprisingly brief, anticlimactic finish. But as time went on we found our groove and I realized what I’d been missing out on.
Of course, all good things must come to an end, and eventually I was left with an emotionally unavailable boyfriend and a seven-month-long relationship that appeared to be tapering off instead of moving forward. I had one last glimmer of hope when he finally took me up on a romantic museum-and-movie outing but back at my apartment, the carefree date took on a decidedly serious tone. On my couch, Adam sat several feet away from me instead of initiating our usual TV-watching cuddle position. “So, I’ve been thinking,” he began, pausing. “And I think we’d be better off as friends.”
Rewind. What? My heart dropped in my chest, and my ears started ringing. I was completely blindsided; our fun-filled day had put me on cloud nine and now I was in freefall. “I never planned on having a girlfriend,” he continued, citing his 10-year plan of traveling the world and going to graduate business school to become an economist (insert yawn here). He also threw in that I just wasn’t The One (ouch). He got upset when he learned that I didn’t want his friendship and wrote me a postmortem e-mail the next day saying that even though he thought this was for the best, he couldn’t imagine his life without me.
But the damage was done. For the first time ever, I experienced empty bed syndrome. And in my particular situation, it was especially bad because Adam, despite being a financially blessed investment banker, was a tightwad and never bothered to upgrade his twin bed from childhood, so every time I stayed over at his apartment our bodies were pressed up against each other as the only means of staying on the mattress. Spooning was a matter of survival.
You’d think, after many near-falls onto the floor, I wouldn’t miss that crammed situation, but breakups work in mysterious ways. Since our blowout in January, it took me months to feel seminormal again and even though I was hurt, sad, and angry I spent most nights hugging the furry remnants of our relationship—i.e., a stuffed ewe he bought me while on vacation in Australia. After many lonely winter nights with Wooly, months of therapy, journaling, and support from friends who had been there, done that, I finally got over Adam and empty bed syndrome, and moved on.
It’s been more than four years since the breakup and I firmly believe that it’s true what they say (or at least, what Sheryl Crow says): The first cut is the deepest. I’ve loved more intensely—and lost just as much—since Adam, and my heart is stronger now. Over that initial wound, scar tissue has formed and I’m happier in my own skin. Wooly and other stuffed substitutes are no more, and instead of keeping to one side of the bed, I sleep in the starfish position, embracing the space that being single provides—knowing there’s always my comforter to keep me warm.
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