Here I sit, in my perfectly lived in room. The room I've inhabited for nearly 13 years. I've pushed furniture around, hung vintage mirrors and dried flowers from its walls, spilled nail polish on its carpets, and have never dusted its fan blades. This is my perfectly imperfect room. It has been white, yellow, pink, and red. It has changed as I have grown, never once complaining of the holes in its walls, the music I play, or the clutter I've collected over the years.
This room has seen me talk on the phone to boys in middle school.
This room has seen me drinking Boones Farm at sleep overs in high school.
This room has seen me bust my ass through nursing school.
It never occurred to me that I'd be leaving this room someday, having to break it down, pack it up, and desperately try to recreate it elsewhere.
When the day comes when I have to share it with a man, will he let me hang my vintage mirror and dried flowers? Will I have to throw out my collection of wine bottles, pin-up portraits, and scented candles? I'm certain I wont be able to sit atop my bed with Otis Redding on the radio while I scriblle my thoughts into my journal.
The second I leave my parents' house, it will become the fitness room, or a room for guests to come and go. It will never again be the room that I remembered it to be.
Growing up is proving to be a very painful adventure. Bittersweet, indeed.
Ode to these four walls. You've been wonderful.
