Originally written sometime in December or early January, while simply sitting at my desk in my office.
The skychair and hammock swing quietly in the breeze outside my office window. There’s something about the abundance of greenery as a backdrop that makes them look like lazy day companions instead of lonely objects awaiting a friendly bottom to swing on them. It could also be the dangle of cheap Christmas lights that I’ve strung haphazardly around the patio roof. The fact that they are still on during midmorning tells me, once again, that I should’ve probably spent the extra $3 on a timer from the hardware store.
While this room is smallish and a nice greyish-blue it’s obvious that a teen-turned-adult, who was unafraid of the possible marring of plaster and paint by his daily lifestyle, was the previous inhabitant. The various attempts at covering up or even repairing any of the blemishes are few, and border so closely on pathetic as to be almost insulting. That is, until I remember what I was like in my younger years and my feelings towards the smears of filler putty instantly become somewhat sentimental. I’m comfortable in here.
The crappy-looking and dirty foldable white table, left over in the shed because of its looks most likely, has been cleaned up a little and is holding my sewing machine and assorted bits. A small television sits on an old Ikea drawer setup from an old life of my brother-in-law’s, when he was into purchasing spendy items in the hopes that $65 underwear would land him the perfect guy. The wardrobe would probably overpower the room with it’s immensity were not for it’s complimentary colours and cluttered floor. My armour stands stoically next to the sewing table, a mishmash of different style wear has been hung off the dressmaker’s mannequin with the idea that these items are either the least likely to fall off or in the most need of airing. They’ve turned the 1950’s-esque womanly shape into a powerful and sharp looking Dark Ages Romano-Celtic Norman peasant who’s rapidly ascended into royalty. Thoughts like that and the humour that I find in them that remind me why I’m in such a nerd-filled club.
My desk is small and blue, and I’ve got the top filled with toys. Any desk that I’ve had over the years has been this way and I’ve always had a deep need to treat myself to the toys that I missed out on as a kid. It’s only when I have a child, or the baby, on my lap that I am truly reminded that these are in fact, toys, and may not have been designed with someone like me predominantly in mind.
The wonder and intricacies of transforming from a muscle car to a robot are lost on the small impish one, who sees only what colours and textures would be best in her mouth. She tells me about them though, each and every one, with her little squeaky voice and a pointed index finger. A very serious look comes across her face when relating new knowledge of something interesting-looking.
“Doo!” she’ll say with something dangerously close to a scowl. The scowl then lifts as she meets my eyes and her face breaks slightly with a small smile, she seems to take enjoyment not from the gaining of this knowledge but of the sharing it with me. “Gah!” gets emphatically shoved into my face. We’re here together and it is a good thing.
As my eyes cast about the room in an effort to somehow capture more than just my idiosyncrasies, I see a cricket set, half-finished leather re-enactor projects, giant William Wallace claymore sword, and a 5-year olds Snow White dress in need of zipper repair. It becomes readily apparent to me that this kind of random and somewhat eclectic thing is all that’s really allowed in this room.
That’s probably why it’s mine.