My favorite place Noelle Simon

When I was seven years old, I used to think my floor was made of hot lava or occasionally under siege by a pack of angry anacondas. So, at night when it was time for me to go to bed, I would have to take one giant leap to make it to the massive fluffy island in the middle of the room, which served as my safe haven for the night. Once the blanket was over me, I was untouchable.

When I was nine, I decided that I would camouflage myself amongst the hordes of stuffed animals that coexisted with me on my bed. I did this because I believed that when my father came in the next morning to drag me off to the doom that was the fourth grade, he would be unable to find me. (Naturally, he found me.)

The point of these stories is that some of the most vivid memories I have from my childhood have been focused around the seemingly mundane piece of furniture that is my bed. This essay was probably designed to be written about some destination location - like how I climbed the Swiss Alps and had a chocolate tasting at the top in a remote ski lodge, or a time I went to Saint Tropez and went sailing with a group of French and Italian male models. But, come on, let’s be honest. No man can ever hold you like four posters and a soft down comforter in...