The Grinch is at it again, not skulking back to his hidey-hole on Mt. Crumpet as is proper come New Years. The furred menace is targeting my desk this time. My trusty chair, too. But, if I’m honest, the set isn’t mine.
The spindly number—where I often opt not to write—belongs to my husband. Desk and chair originally decorated his childhood room. The prisoner of war hut with the beginnings of a tunnel dug under the floorboards ala Hogan’s Heroes. (I’m not kidding.)
Check out the vintage upholstery. That’s vintage re-upholstery. (My MIL tried to get me to redo the chair like she did way back when. No comment about my husband’s fantasies about childhood escape ;^) Makes your back ache just looking at it, right?
That’s the problem. Random spasms and sciatic nerve zingers aren’t my idea of a HAPPY NEW YEAR. I’ve visited there before. And while I’m not hobbling yet, the too familiar quakes making me wince have got to go. Health issues aside, the writing life is serious business. The craftsmen needs his tools. Her tools! And while I didn’t begin this blog with a resolution in mind, I’m making one.
Out with the old. Toss old habits, old tools, and old whatever if it no longer works and/or causes you grief. (I’m not dumping myself but the clinging vine bit isn’t working. At least not with worn out furnishings.) Donating castoffs is a great way to overcome. Says the woman with separation anxiety. But, hey, someone in need of a child’s desk may squee over that which makes my back sob. (Second hand stores are the bomb!)
And Boo is sure to appreciate the extra space. She’s been cramped lately what with me wanting to sit at the desk and open my laptop. She made sure to stop by and see what I was writing about.
So it’s no Grinch who wants to remove this beloved hazard and make way for a new desk set. But you knew that already.