Ode to My Apartment, The Final Act

I saved my favorite room for last.


My bedroom was the room in my house that came to represent me most. This was not by accident. In 2006, I decided that my semi-tortured single self deserved a sanctuary. I wanted a space that captured my personality and welcomed me into it whenever I passed through its door. I wanted it to feel bold and bright and remind me that I was also bold and bright. I was not a girl in need of a boy. I was not a girl who wished her bed had someone else lying in it. I wanted this to be MY room to the nth degree. With a mattress I could lie on and stretch my limbs across to touch all four corners—leaving no room for anyone else. And a bedspread that a male would never pick. This was going to all about me.


So I did something I thought I'd never do. I bought a schmancy expensive duvet set from Pottery Barn. And when I moved a week ago, it broke my heart a little that I wouldn't be fanning it out across our guest bed (which is in Mr. Wonderful's office). When my niece told me she would take my bedspread, I almost cried. That single item had become my pet over the years. It represented a time of independence for me. Of repair. I didn't want it to go to the Goodwill. It needed to be passed on to some other deserving soul. Like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

It makes my heart sink a tiny bit to look at the pictures above. That single girl I knew so well and tried so hard to take care of is moving on. With luck, she'll never ever have to buy a ME bedspread again. And her bed will always have a soft concave spot carved out for her lifelong partner. But don't be surprised if at some point, she writes about taking a nap under her niece's duvet.