When I was growing up my dad made us do "bed making practice". We were expected to get our beds made every day before school and if we missed a day, our Saturday was not spent watching cartoons but instead making our beds. We would make the bed, and then Dad would come in for inspection, unmake the bed, and we would go through the entire process again until he felt we had learned our lesson. I think out of the three of us I had the most bed making practice sessions. Therefore, you would think that I would be meticulous about making my bed now some 25 years later. Not so. I am lucky to make it out of the house fully clothed in the mornings, much less get my bed made.
Then I starting thinking "What if I had an accident on the way to work in the mornings? What if I died? What if I ended up in the hospital for a long period of time?". My mom would have to enter my bedroom and she would see my slovenly bed making habits. I couldn't have my mom mad at me at my funeral for letting all of those years of bed making practice go to waste. So I started making my bed again on a sort of regular basis (in other words, it is a good week if it happens twice). Today was a good morning and the bed got made up.
When I got home, I went upstairs and was shocked to see my bed made. "Who broke into my house and made my bed?" I thought, looking around my room in a panic. I also wondered how they got past Bailey. Then the thought fog slowly lifted and my feeble mind remembered that I was the one who had made my bed. See...that's how unfamiliar I am with seeing a made bed. But that would be a scary intruder, someone who would break in so they could clean. If there were intruders like that I'd probably just keep my doors and windows unlocked in the hopes they would drop by.
1 day ago