At work today I was trying desperately to put some lost books back to their rightful homes in the interior design section - and failing miserably. That section is a lost cause (along with Photography, Hobbies and Crafts, Fashion, Kids, Business....essentially all that is not straightforward fiction). But anyways I'm not here to whinge about poor organization at the corporate level: I'm here because I need to share my absolute admiration for all that is interior design and home improvement.
I can't say that in my life I've ever had a chance to design my own space. When I was 12, my sister and I were finally given our own respective rooms, and this was a momentous occasion. But even though I got to choose the colours of my walls and how it was set up, none of the furniture was my choice and there were some pieces that I had no choice about not having in there to begin with. The extent of my decorating muscle being exercised was me choosing what Green Day posters I wanted where and how many different funky stickers I could put on my mirror while still being able to see my reflection. For seven years my room barely changed, except once in arrangement, until I peaced out to Australia.
In Aussie-land, I had my first taste of an empty room and no history of physical objects to burden and clutter. Granted, it was a room minus a personality - a standard college dorm - but that was all the more exciting. I bought posters in a frenzy to mark it as my territory and revelled in the clean, empty space that was not more than I could manage. It had everything I needed and everything served a purpose. It was a room that felt energizing when my room at home had always felt claustrophobic and like a timeless void that sucked up the majority of my life with sleep, Facebook, and literally sitting and staring and doing fuck all.
Within the first three weeks of my being away, I skyped my sister and told her she could have my room. She'd been wanting to swap for a really long time by this point, me having the bigger room, and her having the childhood bedroom with the colours and designs her nine-year-old self had thought were the epitome of appeal. I don't think she believed me at first, but I told her I couldn't go back to my life at home so changed and then go to sleep staring at the same ceiling I'd stared at through all my teenage angst. So she informed my mother and a month later they set out boxing my things and repainting (at long-overdue last).
That being said, I never decided what my new room would look like. The most my mother conferred with me on the subject was choosing what colour she was going to paint it. She'd wanted green, which I was vehemently against as my old room had been green too. We settled on blue. The first time I saw the exact colour and the way they'd set it up was the night I arrived home five months later.
I must say I genuinely liked it - and like it still. The walls are rag-rolled blue, almost turquoise, the colour of a blue glacier or what you'd imagine tropical wind looked like. It's got a whole white/blue/natural-honey-wood-brown combo going on that I very much like and really didn't expect to work so well together, but it looks good. I'm happy with it. But I still didn't design it, aside from putting up the posters I carefully rolled and toted back home from Oz.
So anyway, back to how this all came about, I was looking in the interior design section and falling in love. I genuinely never thought much about designing my own space before browsing this section at work. It was just something that never factored into my life and I assumed in a lot of ways that it was an indulgence and a perk of being rich, that it was sheer luxury to be comfortable in your own home. My parents, despite their irate responses that they carefully decided how to decorate the house (23 years ago, might I add, and 23 years of not changing an inch), never really gave a crap how it looked. My mom fancies the cluttered look of cozy-lived-in-cottage, and my dad....well, I don't think he's seen the house since 23 years. So seeing these photographs of people who adore and take pride and joy in how their homes look was a novelty and a heartstopping wonder. It was that moment of obviousness when you're holding a pen and wondering where your pen went and then are delighted to see it already in your fingertips.
I must say that my favourite books were those on tropical homes. Holy bejeezus, I want to live in the tropics. My ideal home for the longest time was living in modern loft that's one big space with an open staircase and giant, single-paned panels of windows spanning the entire wall. But Living in a home with trees around it too, or on a mountain overlooking ocean and jungle with a pool and a deck would be glorious as well. So long as it's open, empty, made of glass and bright bright bright then I will be happy.
Most importantly, however, was that I've finally decided what kind of bed I'd want. My sister just got one for her new room and it's so wonderful - while, wrought iron-style headboard, so soft I literally fall asleep on it as soon as I lie down, and with so many pillows it's like being a nestling of a pillow-laying bird. And the funny thing is, before I saw it, it was exactly what I thought I wanted. Something about seeing it though made me not see myself in that kind of bed. It wasn't, isn't, right for me. When my sister asked me what I'd get for a bed if I were to buy any one I wanted, I couldn't really answer her. In the back of my mind, I've been thinking about it for weeks. Then, flipping through a random book I'd picked up in the section, there it was. Wonderful, fluffy, white, and like it's made out of whipped cream. No bedposts, and flat on the ground with no space underneath - just flowing white linen and duvets spilling over the edges. I can't even find a picture of what it looks like online to post here. But just trust me in that it was my perfect bed.
The desperation I feel for having a real bed cannot even be described. To contextualize: I'm sleeping in the same bed I was sleeping in from when I moved out of my crib. My hands and feet fall off the ends when I stretch out. This bed was also the bed that my uncle slept in, and the one that my mother slept in before that. It is supported by tired metal slats and cardboard. It has no mattress. It is made marginally soft and sleepable by a futon. It gives me horrendous back problems because the middle sags and curves down, and I always wake up groggy and with pains in my neck. It's massively saddening that I'm going to be in this bed for the next two years until I escape from here and head back to Australia. But at least I know what I'm looking for so when I finally invest, I at least can know that it's what I've always dreamt of having. Even if those dreams are a little belated in the formation.
Anyways in other news:
Headline: Comic con is tomorrow!
Headline contenders: I got asked out to coffee at work today, and I also lost my wallet (major bummer).
Recent events: I dressed up at Saladfingers for my dear friend's 20th birthday party, which was an "Internet" theme.
Arts and Entertainment: The Fountainhead is blowing my mind, and I really am praying that the ending will be equally as impressive as the book thus far.
Food: I had a smashing breakfast, after waking up with a happily non-hungover head, of sunny side up eggs, sausage and heaps of marvellous Québec bacon.
Weather: A balmy 12 degrees, considering it's nighttime. Beautiful 3/4 yellow moon tonight, partially under cloud cover.
