my threadbare life

I love my couch. It’s the most comfortable piece of furniture in my apartment. I eat, read, watch TV, and even fall asleep on it. I inherited this couch from my friend Beth after we lived together several years ago. Her family owned it for 20 years before I did. It’s seen quite a bit over the years and has its share of stains and tears on the exterior blue textured fabric (so much so that I’ve flipped the cushions over—twice). Most of the things I own have similar hand-me-down qualities—scratches, missing pieces, discolorations.

I’ve grown quite happy with the imperfect domesticity that surrounds me—perhaps because I feel it complements me better than a picture-perfect Cindy Crawford inspired Room-to-Go ensemble ever could. I’m well aware of my own threadbare qualities, my flawed self, my inability to project a “put together” image for more than a few minutes at a time. It would be perpetuating an illusion were I to occupy a space that required Martha Stewart-like care.

I may not be able to confess in words all the ways I go astray, but there’s not enough pixie dust in the world to keep me from revealing who I am symbolically, through the place I call home.