BUNKY EXPEDITION.

When I first emigrated from California to the city a year and a half ago, I had grand visions of blossoming into a woman. Being an only child who had never left her home state, I thought of New York as that distant Mecca where children became adults, where the soft-willed were somehow hardened by a relentless pounding of the pavement. It was a chance to seize my independence, to pull an Obama and put childish things aside. Oh, the audacity of California youth.

A year and a half later, I’ve definitely grown up a bit (my proliferating collection of Chanel anti-aging serums can attest to that), but there’s still one little thing that prevents me from being one of the big girls. It’s the bane of my New York existence, the scarlet letter I don each night, the antithesis of all things sexy. Yup– it’s my bunk bed.

Okay—to be completely fair, it is not actually a bunk bed. It is what New Yorkers call a “loft bed,” one of those handily crafted (and heavily euphemized) furniture pieces specifically designed for city living. A desk resides below it instead of a human being, and it nearly doubles the square footage of the box I call my room. Since an ill-placed radiator prevents the use of a regular bed, this is pretty much the only option. And it was free, so I guess I really shouldn’t be complaining.

But let’s face it: it’s pretty hard to feel like an adult when you’re sleeping like a kid at summer camp. Sure, it sounds fun at first (“A tree house! A love lair! My very own cushion fort!”), but the excitement wears thin as soon as you realize mid-REM bathroom breaks could easily land you in the emergency room (I dare you to tackle that ladder drunk).

And the logistical woes don’t end there. Nightstand essentials (iPhone, lip balm, reading materials, contraceptives if you’re lucky) must also be packed up before the traipse to the top. Eating and drinking are pretty much kyboshed: bringing up a cup of chamomile is completely out of the question, as one false move could end in wet sheets and/or second-degree burns, and there is no place to put your dirty dishes. Any unnecessary detours from dreamland are avoided at all costs. So in many ways, it’s a lot like camping. Thank God I like camping.

And then there is the issue of man love. Trust me, there’s nothing sexier than whispering, “I want you to mount my bunk bed…” to that special someone. But once you two get up there, it’s another story. The bed sounds like it’s going to break when one person mounts it; imagine what it sounds like when two people are mounting each other– the A train makes less noise. You never know when the thing is going to collapse from under you and take your lovemaking to another level (quite literally).

But alas, all things must come to an end. With my move to a new apartment, there comes not only an expansion in square footage, but also the capacity for—you guessed it—a regular bed.

As my friend JaJa dismantles the bunk this afternoon and I prep its appendages for recycling, I can’t help but wonder if I will miss it. Despite its imperfections, it did its job, and provided a unique living experience for my first year in New York. It was always a conversation starter (albeit a slightly embarrassing one), and was a great drying rack for my delicates when the shower ran out of room. Many secrets were shared in its recesses, and many blogs were written in its womb. I may have been its Hester Prynne, but it did turn out to be a pretty reliable bedfellow: tall, (kind of) strong, and hard like galvanized steel.

What more can a girl ask for? Not much. But it’s high time I became a woman.