Today I’m going to tell you about my new favorite place in St. Petersburg. And though my globetrotting has basically been relegated to one continent, I venture to say this might be my most favorite place in the world.
This is no natural wonder or chic hotspot, but it is fairly exclusive. And, though many of you may have heard of this place, it can be hard to find. It may take a while to get there, but bear with me.
Firstly, several factors have conspired to keep me in a state of hermitude lately (not the least of which is, apparently, making up words). One of these factors is an annual and unavoidable tradition: Wimbledon.
Now, I have already gone over the finer points of my tennis obsession with you all so I will simply sum up this particular distraction as, well, distracting. ESPN is actually covering this event at decent hours of the day (read: working hours) and so I have been obliged to cut back the hours at my own hard job: doing super fun stuff and writing about it.
I realize that this may not garner a whole lot of sympathy from you poor folks who are away from the television during prime, All-England Club match time, but stay with me.
The second reason that I have been stuck at home is the ever-present home improvement project. I know many of you are familiar with this generic chore – you can substitute your own Home Depot horror story here. But, this time it was not the re-bracing of my collapsing ceiling. Or the replacing of my leaking toilet. (Ah, the joys of homeownership.) This past week, I have spent whole days of my life trying to organize the terrifying nuclear fallout that is my “home office.”
Now, I know I’m lucky enough to actually have an entire room for that designation. But the sad truth is, this room is so small, dark and hot – and while these might all be great qualities for a South American pinup girl - it is virtually useless to me. Throw in the fact that nearly every bit of mail or otherwise annoying artifact from our days is literally thrown in there ten minutes before dinner party guests arrive (this has been standard operating procedure at our house since day one), and you have some idea of the conditions I have been laboring under.
People, there are Christmas cards in there from 2002, many now with the added bonus of a calcified and neatly pressed insect carcass inside. There are piles upon piles of magazines and papers I have never laid eyes on, not to mention scraps of poetry and long-abandoned journals – all of which have to be meticulously read for both filing purposes and for comic relief. (Apparently, and inexplicably, at one point during my high school career, I felt the urge to document the finer points and relative distinctions between the Backstreet Boys and their predecessors the New Kids on the Block.) Why on Earth do we hold onto these things?
Well, we all have our junk drawers, tables, closets, rooms – what have you – into which the endless tide of crap that makes up a life overflows. We all have secret stashes of love letters from affairs we can’t remember and exercise equipment collecting yet more laundry and dust. Perhaps a more pressing question would be: why am I torturing myself by trying to organize it?
I’m glad you asked. You see, Saturday was my thirtieth birthday. I am now officially three decades old. Gone forever are the carefree, proudly disorganized days of my twenties. (And, I know that this is true because last year I got an iPod. This year, my gifts were generally inspiring, life-affirming books – the kind my grandmother likes to read.) Admittedly, as many of my friends have pointed out and recognized from their own bout with the big 3-0, I have the undeniable urge to get my act together – to grow up and get down to business.
And so - in the spirit of Bill Murray’s “baby steps” - that business seems to be currently centered in my office. Or at least it will be once I’ve cleared away the cobwebs and overcome the creepy feeling I get just walking past the door.
I want a space where I can write – away from the draws of the television and the various distractions and mosquitoes of my front porch. I want a room with maps on the wall of places I have never been, with a laptop, a printer and no internet connection. And so, this is my birthday present to myself.
I nearly finished it this weekend, and it is undoubtedly my new favorite place. I have a groovy lava lamp (and yes, that is the only adjective you can legally use to describe a lava lamp) and a soothing little clock that ticks along steadily, metronome-like next to the erratic percussion of my keyboard. I have a semi-comfortable chair, a hurricane-force fan, and a single goal: to clear my mind as I have this space so that I can begin my next thirty years with far fewer excuses.
I’m sorry you can’t come, but I promise you can make your own space just like it. You don’t have to be thirty. You don’t have to be a writer. Just clear away the dust bunnies and make a little place for yourself and whatever it is you like to do.
I hear that Home Depot is having a sale on some fabulous organizational products.
Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 7/5/07
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