domesticity

7 Jun

This is the first time I have moved house as a grown up (that is, with a house load of stuff that is all mine). Previously I had a backpack full of things, or a medley of boxes. But this move has felt more like the ones I see on the tv or in movies. Boxes labelled with intended room destinations, a moving truck with two sweaty men, etc.

Now we have all our things in the new house we get to play tetris for a while. The narrow rooms are proving a bit of a challenge, like we stacked too high on both sides and now have the narrow tunnel of doom developing in the centre of the game screen. Never mind, I am loving the chance to reorder things and break old habits.

Why does that go there?
Because it always did.
Not now it doesn’t.

We also dabbled a little in the DIY today, with a trip to a paint store and a hardware store. I grew up with a mum who could find and fix up anything beyond recognition. And now, with all of the blogs I read that discuss diy/design/interiors, I think I have developed an over-inflated sense of my own skill in this area. I always imagined I would be the type to buy an old house and fix’er up, but it seems that I am not the handywoman I thought I was. Turns out I don’t know my acrylic from my enamel, nor do I understand the implications of choosing either of these. Not to mention my epic fail of leaving the house without measurements and hoping for the best. The best did not eventuate.

I am unashamedly a homebody, but I still find this tendency towards the domestic a bit out of my league. I feel like I am playing house, which is fun after years of flats and nomadic behaviour. But if I take it too seriously I might all of a sudden be prematurely aged.

And as I mentioned in my last post, what good is a beautifully decorated apartment if you have nothing interesting to say?

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