I used to love watching that show on MTV, Room Raiders. A person decides who of three choices to date based on the contents of their room. No holds barred, panty drawer and all. In watching the show during my youth, it is clear that it made a large impact on how I approach my bedroom. What do my things say about myself? What do my books say about who I am? My clothes say about how I represent myself? My collections say about my life. And so I could never decorate a room from scratch. For me, a room is a reflection of my past and so who I am.
My room is filled with what some people call tchotchkes and what I call heirloom. A decaying collection of Jane Austen novels. A ceramic frog my best friend in Elementary school gave to me. The same perfume I’ve been wearing for eight years. It is impossible for me to give anything away. When I returned home from college I made a decision to revamp. Clean up. I got through my bedroom after a surprise under the bed and started on the attic. In unlabeled boxes I discovered my entire life’s collection of soccer jerseys. All of my overalls from middle school. My collection of casts (I did break my arm four times). All things that I was convinced I could never live without as a child. Little did I know I’d forget they existed. But that summer after college, in cleaning my room, I discovered my entire life’s worth of memories associated with objects. Here was the time I kicked the ball too hard trying to make a goal, so hard I fell over and broke my arm. Here was the corsage I wore to junior year prom. And letters. A box full of every birthday card, Christmas card, lost tooth card.
Such is my bedroom.
And so I am sure the rest of my life will go this way. A pot my sister made for me, a collection of jars that used to reside in our garage, my alligator purse on good display. It is these things that remind me of who I am and I am glad they reside in my bedroom. They fill me with joy.