Pretty Little Things: My Bedroom

When I was in high school, I painted my bedroom’s walls the color of chocolate mousse, and fancied myself quite a grown-up. Just the word, taupe, screamed adulthood. It replaced my formerly adored shocking magenta and I hoped I’d picked a color that would stand the test of time. I don’t think I expected to be the one who would appreciate that maturity of my choice; rather, I always hoped my bedroom would serve another noble purpose, and would someday evolve into a quiet guest room, or a tranquil place for Mama to sew, certain I’d be off someplace somehow more wonderful and exciting.

I didn’t expect this place, this room, to be much. It was supposed to be Mama’s office, her piano books stacked on the shelves, and a closet full of my family’s stored and forgotten knick-knacks that remind me that this place isn’t really mine anymore; it’s borrowed space. When I moved home at the beginning of the summer, I didn’t think I’d stay. I didn’t think I’d settle like this. But even on the brink of adulthood, maybe especially on the brink of adulthood, there’s something about the idea of home that’s irresistible, and my bedroom-converted-into-Mama’s-sewing-room-reconverted-into-my-bedroom manifests that utterly perfect appeal. My perfume bottles lined up on the armoire, Mama’s sewing machine on her desk and a dress form standing stoically in one corner, my own desk usually strewn in papers and jewelry taken off before bed and half empty glasses of water and scraps of fabric and yarn or beads…

There’s something really special about a girl’s relationship with her bedroom, and lately I can’t stop thinking that this is especially true for me. My love for my bedroom feels borderline narcissistic - it makes me wants to sigh - “Mmm!” It’s sinfully feminine and deliciously cozy and crowded and I think I’ll stay. Just for a little while.