How I Destroyed my Work Station—And, Briefly, My Life

A tale of three and a half couches and the hollow lure of aspiration... that led to an empty living room

Ever since the election, I’ve had a certain manic energy. Some of it has been focused on my writing, but a lot of it, truth be told, has been poured into the hundred-odd year-old house that I call home in Ithaca. I’ve touched up endless paint (tracking down the colors somewhat obsessively based on old cans in the basement and a mixture of hope and reason and sheer bloody-minded determination). I have decluttered drawers and cupboards and closets. I arranged for the replacement of several ugly light fixtures that have been bugging me ever since we bought the house, over six years ago. I gave up on matching paint colors and called in professionals to have some of the walls repainted in a color we actually like (so long, muddy straw yellow!).

It all culminated with two wanton acts of consumerism, undertaken the very day Trump was inaugurated. I bought a nice new rug to replace the increasingly tattered one in the living room (no regrets). And then I pulled the trigger on a new couch that I convinced myself would solve almost all of my problems.

Reader, it has been an unmitigated disaster (photos incoming).