Confession Tuesday

Hello, fellow confessors and readers.

I’m afraid I don’t have much juice this week, but in the spirit of committing to this weekly adventure, here goes:

My husband and I have new floors. Wood, in the front room. And they are absolutely gorgeous (wide-plank hickory, if you should ask, an under-used material. It’s an American product and is the hardest American wood available. Perfect for residences with toe-nailed pets. )

I am confessing this because our house is finally “put together” and visitor-worthy. You see, I am “in-the-trade”. My day job is as an interior designer; I have been too embarrassed to have anyone over to my house for years and years and years. Oh, some very, very close friends have seen the house. (But not everyone and it has been commented on. Some friends look at me in a funny way when I used to say, oh it’s too much a mess to have you see it. I think they knew some deeper secret lay hidden.) Mark and I haven’t had a dinner party for more than one other person. Ever. Or a cocktail party; no, we have hosted a couple of very minor events, which I fussed over because of the state-of-our-house. Mark is with me on this; he didn’t even want us to host the neighborhood summer picnic last year because he didn’t want people to walk through our house to get to the toilet.

I have been exposed too much to the “good stuff”- furniture and lighting and architecture I could in no way afford; I was paralyzed by not being able to make a decision. And I was afraid of choosing wrongly. Of having a (any) talented designer friend over who would say, “Oh”, in that arched-eyebrow way that indicates a little concern or pity. I had one bad experience about 15-years ago when a big-named partner didn’t like my ideas and I have since taken myself out of the “finishes” side of the design business. This is all silly because I’m not a fluffing-pillow kind of designer. I am more a fussy commercial and institutional planner and detailer who tries to figure out how buildings get put together. And I am pretty good at it.

We have been in a constant state of tearing things apart since 1994 when we bought this house. Last year we had the kitchen redone (my 50th birthday present in a way; not Paris, but wonderful), so the floor was the last thing to do.

I feel like a grown-up, finally, at 50. I love my house. It’s crazy to have something like this define me. But I admit, too, it is a fabulous feeling.

The good side of taking so much time to make decisions is that this house is not the same today had I been able (money and intent) to do it all at once. I like this house. I’ve made better choices having sat with it so long and understanding just how this house should work. (It’s a very small two person house so, in my defense, it has a harder set of problems to solve.)

Last night I had a handful of writers over for a writer’s reading book club I am in. (We read Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson. The irony is not lost on me.) I worked all weekend to finish painting and put stuff back in place and on the walls. I didn’t get to enjoy a rare gorgeous February day in my garden (the roses should have been pruned this weekend, it was President’s Day weekend, after all) because I wanted to have things put together for the ladies. I can say I was proud of how nice the house looked and especially pleased when someone said: I like your colors.

I wish I could do things just because I want to do them and not fuss over whether they are done perfectly. I wish I could invite you all over for tea, and we could talk about this little problem of perfectionism and how inhibiting it is. And how sometimes it works itself out, but mostly it is a pain.

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Find a link to other confessor’s blogs at Carolee‘s and January‘s blogs.