A Room of My Own: Part 1

 

It was Virginia Woolf who said that every woman -- and more specifically every woman writer -- needs a room of her own.  To express herself, collect her thoughts, and escape from domesticity (i.e., dirty dishes and spit-up).  As a woman with lots of thoughts -- and things -- I went ahead and claimed not one but two spaces.

The first is my closet.  When I look at everything in it, I find it hard to believe that most of it was once crammed into the bedroom in my Brigantine rental.  Moving into my house was like learning to breathe.  For the first time, I could really spread out and embrace decorating.  Also, avoid getting black and blue marks every time I wanted to finagle access to a certain bag/pair of pumps/feather boa.  (Side note: I hate that something as fab as a feather boa is named after something as awful as a boa constrictor.)  Sometimes, I just stand in this room and look around as if I've never seen it. The world falls away, sealing me in my bubble.  I feel like Rapunzel. Minus the super-long hair and captivity.

Now, in my eighth day of coronavirus-inspired self-quarantine, I'm more grateful than ever for my sanctuary.  Although I've (happily) spent the last week in pajamas, it's nice to see my wardrobe waiting.

That said, stay tuned for the second installment of A Room of My Own -- and see what's behind door number two.