My House.

With her slippered feet propped up on the embroidered footstool she picked up at a shop in Moose Pass, she takes a long loving look at her home, taking in all the details that best emulate who lives here and who she is.

She (that would be me), has an old soul and a taste for the eclectic. Color, whimsy, style and distinction accessorize all the little corners of this yellow house, and you can tell a lot about who she is and what she likes by the flavor of her decorating.

There’s a bookshelf chock full of volumes on fashion. Peppered between stacks are various cocktail shakers and candles, as well as knick knacks most likely picked up at antique stores. Her art, also lovingly purchased from hole in the wall shops that smelled old and dusty, hangs on the walls that surround a picturesque setup that includes an antique settee and its accompanying chairs, snagged at the local Backyard Antiques, which is only open in the summer.

Every corner of the house is adorned in treasures she found charming and irresistible. Empty St. Germain bottles hold bouquets of flowers, jewelry is displayed in artistic formation, and there’s even a delicious red fainting couch in her closet (you never can know the exhaustion of trying on all those clothes).

There’s even evidence of a furry feline companion too, for cat hair speckles the surfaces and toys appear scattered about the floor.

Lit by either twinkle lights or candles, her cosy home contains a collection of pieces that mirror the type of woman that lives there and the style is unapologetically her.

And if you haven’t yet been invited inside, welcome to my house!

Upon first glance, it is undeniably a house best suited for someone like me. After all, it is I alone who live here!

After years of collecting and cultivating, I finally have an abode all to myself that I have garnished to my exact liking. Without having to compromise or adjust according to the likes of roommates or siblings (or boyfriends, but I haven’t had any of those yet), I am now free to put that 1940’s pinup poster on my wall and walk around naked with a glass of bubbles in hand.

Though I am most comfortable in these walls, I can’t help but succumb to the occasional comment that comes my way, that maybe my house is too much me.

It’s mostly from family members, who have all lived or are currently living with significant others. It’s no secret that my living room furnishings aren’t exactly Netflix & Chill worthy. My bathroom is most definitely a woman’s, complete with fragrant hand soap and a cat towel. I’ve converted my extra bedrooms to additional closets and have even taken over the workbench in the garage for shoe storage, even though it has this apparently handy tool called a vice. And I often get made fun of for being that person who could never compromise my decorating if a man were to move in, as it wouldn’t fit my “aesthetic.”

(okay yes, the image of an xbox in my living room frightens me slightly, but I will cross that bridge when I get there)

It’s funny though, because I didn’t buy a house with a man in mind. I didn’t buy a house to be equally masculine and equally feminine, and I sure as hell didn’t buy a house on the faint possibility of someone someday moving in with me.

I bought a house for me. I decorated it as an exact reflection of who I am because right now, I’m the only one living there (save for Guji). So why on earth would I compromise on its decor on the someday notion that someone else might live there with me?

There are very few opportunities in life in which we get to experience the sweet freedom of living completely by oneself. Where we get to live in our own space, to grace the walls with all of our own belongings, and to live unabashedly as ourselves.

So I’m learning to embrace it, all of it, because it may be tomorrow that I meet someone and it all could change. And though I sometimes wonder if I should consider buying a mug that doesn’t have a cat on it, I very quickly remember that it is my house, after all, and I should have as many cat mugs as I want. Plus, the right person won’t be turned off at my home and all of its decorating because it’s a representation of me, and they’ll love that.

(I hope)

In the meantime, I’ll continue to walk naked through my house after a long day’s work, I’ll put up more 1940’s pinup posters, and I’ll continue to ramble on, with my slippered feet propped up on that embroidered footstool…

And yes, that is cat hair on my shirt.