I took advantage of having some 16 year old muscle around last week and tried to get my downstairs in a more functional state. First we cleared out the very narrow storage space under my stairs. Then we took a few things to Goodwill and ARC. None of that bothered me. We consolidated and reorganized things and then put them back under the stairs. It felt good. Next I decided we should rearrange the furniture.
We moved the couch and the love seat again and again and again. On about the 6th or 7th try, I said, “I like this!” Sean, the visiting strength, looked at me and said, “This is exactly where it started.” Sigh. I took the opportunity to explain to him that this was probably good training for marriage. I don’t think he was convinced. By the time we were finished, the couches had been moved numerous times, the bookshelf had found a new home after being unloaded and reloaded, the TV was closer to the table, the table somehow looked right, the lights for the desk were finally plugged in, the old steamer trunk was unburied and serving as a handy coffee table, and I was ready to cry.
It looked good, and a week later I still like the new arrangement. However, about 40 minutes before we called it quits I was ready to cry. There’s something about rearranging the furniture that agitates me to the core. When I was growing up, I would feel the same way when my Mom would rearrange things. So this is nothing new.
Last November my parents rearranged my living and dining room area. It didn’t upset me in the least. Perhaps it was because I was heavily drugged from surgery, but there was no accompanying anxiety with furniture shifts. Last week’s inner turmoil caught me by surprise. As far as I’m concerned, the furniture is staying put for quite a while.
photo courtesy of Bejan