As nice as the house is that I currently live in, it’s not a home. Even if I felt comfortable with the circumstances, the whole feel of the place is cold and uninviting. The furniture isn’t comfortable, every surface is scrubbed to a gleam and it’s just a little too perfect in all the little ways that most lived-in houses are not. I think back to the days of laughing about how my grandparents’ house never felt like anyone lived there. They occupied so little space themselves and kept everything so tidy, it was like half the house or more never got used. Just the recliner downstairs so Grandpa could watch baseball games late into the night, the kitchen table where they’d share crossword puzzles and Bible study over breakfast and their bedroom and bathroom. Everything else was pristine. But I didn’t have to live there myself, so what did it really matter to me in the long run?
But being here feels bad all around. Even my tiny thumbnail of an apartment already feels cozier than this place, with half-unpacked boxes, wads of newspaper packing and unsorted socks all over the place. I already feel more at home there than here. Luxurious beds, hardwood floors and granite counters, be damned! I’d rather have all my Craigslist furniture, a kitchen that’s too small and a little balcony facing the woods. That equation is better any day of the week. And, yes, I’m having a little trouble fitting everything I own into this minuscule space without jamming full every nook and cranny in the place, but I’m making marked progress. Photos are forthcoming, I assure you.
Seriously, though—who has only one piece of comfortable furniture in the entire house? Especially when it’s a recliner. Only one person can occupy a La-Z-Boy at a time. It ain’t no papasan chair, after all. ;)