I redecorated my room today.
Put new blinds up, reorganized my clothing storage methods, and did a bit of miscellaneous cleaning while playing music on my mother’s phone, even though my own was in the same room.
This was really a second half to that time a few months ago that I moved my bed from its original position and reorganized my book shelves.
Now I am done. It feels fresh.
There’s a reason that redecorating and cleaning feel good, other than the obvious productive mental health boost.
While cleaning, I think of all the power I have to positively manipulate the world around me, by myself. Independently. I think of the concept that when I live on my own, there will be no pressure to clean and instead it will come naturally, like breathing, to upkeep the aesthetic.
While redecorating, I think of the future. Hardly connected, right? And so broad. But my brain goes places.
Yesterday, I was at Bed Bath & Beyond with my mother Diana, my sister Sofia, and her friend Julia. I rolled (wheelchair thing, can’t really say I walked, can I?) around, carrying a piece of paper and a pen with me, writing down all the furniture and supplies I would want. We were there because next year, Sofia and Julia are in college. Dorm room shopping. That got my brain thinking.
When people go shopping for dorm stuff, they always improvise, and most often have these things in mind:
- Relatively easy to take down and put up
- Cheap enough so they can afford it, sometimes without having a job yet
- Fun to design
- Easy to design
So I thought. Most people don’t do this type of impromptu thinking when they decide what goes in a house, most people plan and try to “smooth out” a lot more than they need to. When I live on my own, I’m going to have a dorm room attitude, with furniture and placing that sticks out, with a large antique gear clock on the wall on one side of a wide hallway, and cute signs telling people where the rooms are, that have the same basic design as those arrow-signs that tell people where cities are and how many miles away they are. I’m going to fill my house with my favorite colors, and store things uniquely, even if its a shower rack holding marker jars next to a window, and I’m going to fill my house with DIY.
And I’m going to name this house the “Zaylee House.”
I have a girlfriend. (I’m not lesbian, I’m not even a girl, I’m agender, asexual-panromantic.) Her name is ****** (asterisk-ized for privacy purposes). My name is Zoe. Zaylee. Maybe it’s because we met through Instagram (via my Hunger Games simulations) and live nowhere near each other, but my mind immediately goes through this recurring fantasy of living in a house with her, possibly to make up for all the lost time, and adopting/”surrogating” kids. (We’re both asexual-panromantic.) We’re teenagers, it’s crazy, I know. But it’s just a fantasy, and that’s what happens when I like someone. I know it’s not real, and it’s unlikely to ever be real, but you can forgive a little romanticism, can’t you? (And by the way, if you’re reading this, ******, it’s not that I want to have – er, raise – kids with you personally – I just want to have kids. I feel I’d be a good parent. No matter who I picture myself with, there are kids in that fantasy. Don’t get creeped out. Please.) But no matter who I’m with, even if I’m alone, that name, the “Zaylee House” is going to stick. It’s a good name.
When redecorating (and decorating), I think of what could be.
I think about how angry I am with myself that I had to pick an editor who travels a lot. And then I remind myself, even though it’s true that I’m working as hard as I can on the book I’m writing, and that I sure wish someone else could be on my same timeline – she’s giving me marked up chapters, that’s a huge part of the process of editing, you see, and has lately been taking a break from it – there’s nothing bad about a little self-reflection, a little self-editing. Besides, my extremely busy editor is a lovely person and I am grateful for her help.
I think about Zaylee House, no matter who I’m with in that house, because I want to live in that spontaneous, creative habitat where everything looks both out of place and exactly where it’s supposed to be. I think about pink and blue fuzzy bean bags and washi tape and clothes-hanger chandeliers and more washi tape and large antique gear clocks.
I think “Hopefully I’ll be able to pay for that as a writer.”
I think about the future.
But mostly, I think about interior design.