It’s been approximately two years and two months since we moved into this house, and there has been a methodical progression of organization and renovation ever since then. Before we moved in our stuff, we repainted in the living room, hallways, and the kids’ rooms. The children’s rooms were the first parts completely finished and habitable, followed by the kitchen and then the living room. We redid walls and flooring, and then the dining room was perfect. We found the perfect kitchen table, and then I vowed to stop complaining so much about the kitchen. (Ahem.)
My point is that it’s not that we haven’t been working on the house and fixing it up. We totally have! But even as we’ve worked on every other room, one thing has remained unchanged: Our bedroom.
I know there are people who make the argument that your bedroom should be your beautiful haven of relaxation and the place where you can retreat at the end of the day and feel completely at ease, but I am apparently missing that gene. I believe the bedroom is… where you keep your bed. And, um, everything else.
See, I can’t abide piles of stuff and whatever in the common areas of the house. If people are going to coming through, I want an area that’s tidy and clean and functional. And in my last house, I had a giant basement, so that was a good catch-all for everything I didn’t have the time/inclination to deal with, but here, we have no basement. But we do have a giant bedroom.
I suspect you see where I’m going with this.
Our bedroom has piles. And boxes. In fact, up until yesterday, it held four boxes I never unpacked when I moved here. I mean, you’d think a couple of years would be enough time to finish unpacking, but if you were me, you’d be wrong. Inbetween the piles and the boxes we have the bed, which is fine. The bed has no headboard or fancy frame, because back when I bought it I couldn’t afford either of those. On one side of the bed we have my nightstand, which matches my giant dresser—both of which are pre-divorce pieces of furniture from a set my ex and I split up when we parted ways. Instead of a nightstand, Otto has a little… ummm… stand thing, and he has no dresser.
He does, however, have a beautiful toy box from his childhood. And a lovely oak bookcase/hutch thing rescued from his mother’s house at some point. And I have a bench and a rocking chair from the old house that haven’t found placement anywhere else, too.
To recap: We have a bed, no frame. We have a matching nightstand and dresser that don’t match the rocking chair, bench, Otto’s nightstand thing, the toy chest, or the bookcase. None of those things match each other, either. And we have stacks and piles and boxes and basically a ton of crap.
My motivation to weed through the mess is very low. No one ever goes into that room except me and Otto (and occasionally the kids). It’s not a public room or anything. I know I should take care of it, but by the time the end of the day rolls around and I’m climbing into bed and marveling at what a pit the room is, I’m asleep three seconds later. So.
One of the things I got rid of before moving down here was a cheap elliptical machine. I’d bought it when Chickadee was a baby, I think, and I was determined to get my body back. (That was, of course, long before I realized the truth that you never get your body back after a baby. You get A body back, if you’re lucky, but the one you had before? Gone forever.) Over time the elliptical had done little more than gather dust or serve as a clothes hanger, so when gathering moving estimates I finally acknowledged that I was never going to use the thing and it would be expensive to move, so I sold it.
Yesterday Otto and I answered an ad on Craigslist and drove a couple of towns over and bought an elliptical machine.
DO NOT ASK ME why I think I will actually use this one. I could tell you that I’m different (flabbier and more desperate) now, or that this one is a lot nicer than my old one, starting with the fact that it’s nearly silent vs. the one that used to necessitate turning the television ALLLLLLLLL the way up to drown out the flywheel squeaking, but I’m aware that all of this is me desperately hoping it’s true rather than, you know, actual reality. I’m aware of how ridiculous it is.
What I hadn’t quite thought through, as we were picking it up, was that yes, TECHNICALLY we have plenty of room for such a thing in our bedroom, but in reality there was nowhere to put it. On account of the boxes and piles and stuff.
So Otto and I spent a romantic Sunday evening cleaning our bedroom. Hubba hubba. And he pretended to be impressed when I finally unpacked those last four boxes, and I pretended to be impressed when he rearranged the furniture so that the room looks even MORE like it was decorated in the Early American Dorm Room style than it already did (quite a feat, let me tell you). But by gum, the new elliptical machine has a dedicated space, now, and theoretically I’m going to exercise on it.
I want to feel all triumphant and stuff, but mostly I just feel tired. Huh.