Last night, I slept on the hardwood floor in our living room. The past three days in midwest Michigan have been 90+ degrees during the day and 80+ at night, and our apartment—built in 1890—has no central air, just a single small AC unit wedged into the main room window.
I laid out a sleeping bag and a camp mattress and, honestly? I got a solid night’s sleep. My wife felt bad sleeping on the (admittedly much comfier) couch next to me, but I didn’t see it as a problem. I’ve always been able to sleep wherever and whenever I need to.
Back in high school, my mom instilled in me an ironclad fear of drinking and driving. I drove a 1993 Geo Metro—a literal soup can on wheels—and I can remember more than one night crashing in that thing after hanging out with friends. One time, my 6-foot-tall friend Garrett and I both slept in it. In October. We woke up with the windows frozen over.
In addition, I’ve had a long-standing love for rustic tent camping—over a decade now. I’ve slept on rocks, tree roots jabbing into my hip, deep weeds with mysterious lumps everywhere, and even on beaches with 70+ mph winds blowing the tent sideways. And I think back on every one of those experiences fondly. I still plan two or more rough camping trips a year.
I feel like I take some sort of pride in this. The older I get, the more I find myself making choices that remind me of things I used to do without thinking—back when I was a teenager or in my early 20s. It makes me realize that a lot of the comfort-based decisions we make as adults are luxuries we’ve only been able to afford once we had full-time jobs and the money for those comforts. I like being reminded that I can go without modern amenities—I like knowing that my comfy foam-topped mattress and box fan hold no power over me!
A good friend recently asked me, “When do I become the ‘get a hotel’ type of person?” He and I are both 30, and we still think it’s totally fine to crash on a friend’s couch, air mattress, or even the floor after a late night. But most of the “adults” in my life? They’ll make the drive home or book a hotel—even if it’s someone they’ve known their whole lives.
Maybe we’re just cheap bastards. But maybe—just maybe—all those nights growing up toughing it out on uncomfortable floors, couches, or lumpy rocks paid off. Because at this point, a living room floor feels about as luxurious as a king’s chamber.
-Love Wyatt
Wyatts Hobby Photos 