Blog CemeteryThe Shoebox Room
November 7th 2006 08:51
Ah, the perils and pitfalls of modern living.
(When I say modern, I refer of course to now, as opposed to a few decades ago, not, you know, centuries. I live in a house, and you won’t find me complaining about that, I’m sure my little house is much more comfortable than your average cave or mud hut.)
Houses, I’m sure you’ve noticed, seem to be getting smaller and smaller and smaller until eventually I imagine we will all be living in shoeboxes. Not just me. Yes, although the entire house has not yet shrunk into something you could easily migrate with, my bedroom is ridiculously tiny. It is the smallest in the house, and it’s a garish purple, with old daggy curtains and bits stuck in the carpet. It’s unbelievably hot in summer, and the window frame has a tendency to mould up in winter, so I spend my life in some sort of mix between “oven” and “bacteria farm.” Pleasant.
One of the more serious problems, according to my mum, is an issue of object to space ratio. For example, drop a pair of jeans on the floor of an average bedroom and you have, well, a pair of jeans on the floor. Drop a pair of jeans in my bedroom, and you have a new, denim carpet. Of course, add all my other worldly possessions and we have a store cupboard with a little patch on the end of my bed to curl up in at night.
Thankfully this is not a huge problem for me. I don’t mind mess at all. What bothers me more, is that it bothers my mother. Which means I have to clean it up. Which destroys my delusion.
I’ll explain.
In order to deal with the trauma of existing in my shoebox, I like to approach my bedroom as a series of tasks. Each task prolongs my attempt to move around in the room, thus meaning it takes me the same length of time to get from one wall to the other.
Ingenious. So I pick and stumble my way over clothes and strategically placed (or dropped when I got distracted) sharp things, hair clips, deodorant cans… and this voyage takes my mind off the fact that if I can’t stand in my room and fling my arms out with damaging my fingers on the wall. Why would I be doing that? Well, I don’t know but it would be nice to know that I could if I wanted to.
Anyway. The mess works. However, when I am asked (ordered) to tidy up, what was once a journey from the door to the bed, becomes, well, a step. A small step. I don’t know if you could even say step, I personally think shuffle is more appropriate.
I hope you are all tremendously grateful for your decent, even average sized bedrooms. And to all those who share my shoebox living, may your coping mechanisms be supported by those you live with, hogging the larger rooms.
(When I say modern, I refer of course to now, as opposed to a few decades ago, not, you know, centuries. I live in a house, and you won’t find me complaining about that, I’m sure my little house is much more comfortable than your average cave or mud hut.)
Houses, I’m sure you’ve noticed, seem to be getting smaller and smaller and smaller until eventually I imagine we will all be living in shoeboxes. Not just me. Yes, although the entire house has not yet shrunk into something you could easily migrate with, my bedroom is ridiculously tiny. It is the smallest in the house, and it’s a garish purple, with old daggy curtains and bits stuck in the carpet. It’s unbelievably hot in summer, and the window frame has a tendency to mould up in winter, so I spend my life in some sort of mix between “oven” and “bacteria farm.” Pleasant.
Thankfully this is not a huge problem for me. I don’t mind mess at all. What bothers me more, is that it bothers my mother. Which means I have to clean it up. Which destroys my delusion.
I’ll explain.
In order to deal with the trauma of existing in my shoebox, I like to approach my bedroom as a series of tasks. Each task prolongs my attempt to move around in the room, thus meaning it takes me the same length of time to get from one wall to the other.
Anyway. The mess works. However, when I am asked (ordered) to tidy up, what was once a journey from the door to the bed, becomes, well, a step. A small step. I don’t know if you could even say step, I personally think shuffle is more appropriate.
I hope you are all tremendously grateful for your decent, even average sized bedrooms. And to all those who share my shoebox living, may your coping mechanisms be supported by those you live with, hogging the larger rooms.
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