Where does my stuff go?
2011-11-08 10:31
It’s time to grow up. I guess. Since leaving university I’ve been living the dream, either by myself, with my gran (no one rocks a tequila back quite like my delinquent granny) or with my buddy Carlo.
Those lazy Saturdays of lounging around in my favourite Garfield boxer shorts until it was time for a beer, playing Xbox until two in the morning, farting in bed and then laughing uncontrollably at the results, that’s all slowly been coming to an end this past year.
Next year, there’s no turning back because my girlfriend has finally convinced me that it’s time to move in with her and live like adults should: with pants on and keeping responsible hours.
At first I was quite happy with the idea, but then I started noticing a few things. Like, why is the bed always getting made in the morning (while I’m still in it), why do we have to do the dishes the instant my fork touches the plate after the last morsel of food has been swallowed, why do we "have to do something" when we find ourselves, rather pleasingly in my mind, with nothing to do...and, most importantly, where on earth am I supposed to put all my stuff?
Occupy Cupboard Space
She has cupboards full of clothing, a kitchen stacked with cutlery and crockery, bedrooms filled with beds and a lounge overflowing with scatter cushions; the modern women’s go-to decorative accessory (you know it’s true. My mom, aunt and gran had two pillows between them when I was growing up).
It got me thinking. Once you move in, your stuff (or your right to have any) moves out. Try as I might, when I look back to my childhood, I can barely recall anything of my father’s lying around the house. The lamps where all chosen by my mom, the awful pink suede furniture - most definitely not my dad’s first choice - the bedroom colour scheme, the dining sets, the pictures hanging on the wall, his clothes all crammed into one miserable cupboard between the guest toilet and the top of the staircase - outside of his own bedroom!
Nothing was his. I think he even brought a cat home once and my mother instantly claimed it, changing its name from Destroyer to Pookie as soon as she heard it mewl through the front door. So positive I am that my poor father was not allowed to keep anything of his own, I’m convinced that my brother is not his either.
So I started asking around, and my recently married or already co-habiting mates all confirmed my suspicions. “Oh ja. Your stuff all ends up in boxes in the garage,” said Neil. “I have to keep my clothes in the spare room.” It’s true, nodded a sombre Dave who, though not yet married, had to beg his girlfriend to let them leave her beloved Pinelands for the CBD for "just six months, baby, then we can move back".
Guys have things too, you know. Where is my La-Z-Boy supposed to go, Robyn? Why can’t we throw out the dining room table to make room for my comfy chair? Why does the spare bedroom need another white duvet? Surely guests would love to sleep under my 3D Spider-Man bed set? And that collection of foreign beer bottles and cans I’ve lovingly tended to since 2001, on the off chance I may one day own a home with its own pub...why do they have to go in the bin? I’m sure our future visitors would love to see them placed proudly in the lounge.
Take back your sense of style, gents. Forget Occupy Wall Street. It’s time to occupy your cupboard and living space once again...
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