Simple is in. I get it.
Minimalism rules; frou-frou drools. I know.
And particularly in my realtor world, I get, appreciate, encourage the style. It works. No question.
But maybe, it’s just not in my soul.
My oldest millennial— er, oldest daughter, that is— is as simple as they come. And since I’m not, it’s just one of the zillion ways we differ. She’s grey and white; I’m color palooza. She’s classic and understated; I’m more is more.
I brought her up in a world where nothing is safe from embellishment and she’s been rebelling since I hot-glued pom-poms to the lid of her toy box.
And yes, I’m pretty sure her categorical yin is because of my unmitigated yang.
Now she’s living the hip life in a cool new town with a killer job in an uber contempo highrise. Though she’s only home a few days a year, she’s not shy to point out the incompatible zen of her childhood room.
“I want my room to be grey, Mom.”
“You mean the room that you only live in a handful of days a year? What about the kiwi green, whitewashed-striped walls with the adorable swiss dot outline I painted? And grey walls won’t go with the ocean blue accents like the reversable floral and striped duvet I lovingly sewed, or the plaid and color block curtains with matching drapery rings. Wouldn’t you miss looking up at the display of your swim trophies on the shelves Dad made when you come home?”
She agreed to my terms: Do whatever you want as long as you complete and clean up everything before going back to Chi-town. And she followed through with Part 2 of the rules expected to dissuade: Haul everything you no longer want to Goodwill before you go.
She left me with a lovely grey room, a plain white duvet on the bed, a clear-of-all-clutter dresser and desk, and empty walls. I agreed to finish it off keeping mindful of her zen and spartan sophistication.
Literally found. It was in someone’s trash pile at the street along with a little black chest that’s now my new bedside table. Frou-frou? Perhaps, but lavender is such a nice complement to grey, don’t you think? Then, I brought out the mirror I’d pulled from her trunk before she left for Goodwill. I covered the ocean blue paint with enamel white and hung it back on her wall.
Then I took the old bedside table from my room with the cracked glass top and painted a perfectly-sized wooden charger to replace the glass. I moved that to our den.
Not ready to stop, I took the old bedside table from Jill’s room that had a circus of etched drinking glass rings on the wooden top. I covered it with some wallpaper I found in my craft closet, aged the stark white background, painted the table’s curvy piecrust edges, added a coat of poly and exchanged it for another table in our den.
I appreciate clean lines, I really do. But it’s the whirly and wiggly ones that get my motor running. I’ll bask in the clean-lined zen when I visit Jill at her uber contempto highrise. And she can relax and appreciate her cool-cat style when she returns from visits here in the land of the embellished.
I think it’s a win-win.
P.S. Help me grow my blog! Follow by clicking the follow button and share when you see one you like! K