Change of Scenery

When I first started graduate school, I didn’t have a desk. People, I didn’t even have a dining room table. A treadmill sat in the space formally designated for food consumption. And anyway, why did I need a dining room set when I ate every meal at my sofa? My willingness to live like a homeless person ended when I realized writing while slouched on my couch tortured my back. Like it or not, I needed to switch things up.

“I like that one,” my mother noted as I sat down at a table in the furniture department of JC Penney.

“My thighs don’t clear the apron if I want to cross my legs or prop them up on the chair on the other side.”

These complaints didn’t register with my mom, a woman who forced her family to sit at a country-French farm table designed for miserable midgets. The wood had a wax finish which meant one droplet of water would strip the color from rich chestnut to cloudy gray mud. It was enough to consider giving up all liquids. Also, at one end was a drawer that housed placements. If you were seated at the table when the drawer was opened, you risked losing all skin off the top of your thighs. According to my mother, you should be so lucky to lose some flesh to such an exquisite French antique.

“How about that one?” I asked as I pointed across the way to an orange lacquered number.

“That’s hideous.”

“Yeah, it is.”

I eventually bought a table and four chairs at Ikea. It was a purchase made with my father because my mother had given up on my quest. Speaking of which, if you ever want to see a handicapped man grin from ear to ear, set him loose on his scooter in Ikea.

That furniture served me well these last few years. Most of my novel was written seated at that table. But since I’ve graduated, it has been nothing more than a place to toss crap. These days the top is littered with useless mail, a half-wound skein of yarn and a thin layer of dust. The mere thought of sitting at that table zaps me of all creative energy. This might explain why my novel has remained somewhat untouched, only one new chapter being drafted since graduating over a year ago.

Sunday I went to the gym and the grocery store. I showered and dressed and did some light housekeeping. At around four o’clock, I randomly decided to go for a casual hike. I peeled myself off my sofa and went to my bedroom to grab my trail runners. Halfway to the closet I noticed the left side of my bed, the side that is uphill from the one I always occupy. The pillows looked fluffy and welcoming. The blanket was tucked tight with the comforter folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

I padded back out to the living room, grabbed my laptop and went back to my bedroom. I crawled onto the side I always ignore, pulled the comforter up to my waist and set my laptop on my legs. Then I started typing. I typed and typed, working on a story that I had only a vague idea about, a story I truly had no intention of working on. The sun set and, save for the glow of my monitor, the room was dark. I kept typing.

When I got to the end of the sixth page, I stretched my legs and set my laptop off to the side. I threw back the comfort and headed to the kitchen were I poured myself a celebratory glass of wine. As I took a sip, I noticed my dining room table. I walked over to it and dragged my fingers across the top, leaving streaks through the dust.

“You did me good,” I said as I patted the table. “But sometimes you just need a change of scenery.”