My Room

Let me tell you a little bit about my room. My room is not a place anyone wants to show to guests who visit the house. My laundry basket was overrun a long time ago. There are at least six loads of laundry pouring out of my closet door by now. There is a trail of cleared carpeting leading from my door to my desk chair to my bed. Without this trail one would have good reason to doubt that the room has any carpeting at all. Behind the laundry sits two dusty guitars that still get played, just not polished. I do not wish to know what horticulture experiment is growing between the many sets of socks, jeans, t-shirts, and the carpet below. The closet door remains jammed open due to this mountain of decomposing cotton and polyester. That one corner of the room alone could probably make the most experienced maid blush and faint.

On my bed are two blankets which, as far as I can remember, have never covered all four corners of the bed at the same time. They lay loose next to two pillows with unmatched pillow cases. The sheets get washed about once every other month because, like some children, I enjoy that “broken in” smell over the fresh “ocean breeze” scent of laundry detergent. I prefer settling into my slightly unkempt sheets at the end of my day like I would a beer over wine.

Books are littered around my room like confetti after a wedding. Yesterday I found a book between my mattress and the box spring, though I never meant to hide it. Journals that I have kept since 1992 make up one-quarter of the remaining books on the shelf above my desk. I have a cook book sitting on top of my last oil change receipt next to the speaker for my computer that hasn’t been moved since I set it there last year. Coke cans, coffee cups, and plastic spoons lay two feet away from the inside of my trash can. And, as unlikely as it sounds, my trash can is filled with nothing but a trash bag.

Sometimes I feel like a rat living in a hole with bottle caps and old food lying around, but this is a rare feeling. I am rarely ashamed of my room because, believe it or not, this is my sanctuary. The light blue ceiling that I painted with my own two hands reminds me of a clear upper sky. The walls etched with white faux splatter on a blue-grey surface give me the impression that I am high and safe. On the walls hang gifts of artwork received from friends in remote countries, knives brought back from the highest mountain range in India, and a grey sweater signed by every student I taught in my first classroom.

Even though my mother would be terribly disgusted, as would any potential girlfriend, I get a strange sense of relief that my room is repulsive to others. Without me saying a word, it lets people know that they’re not welcome unless they receive a special invitation. I can retreat to my room on any day, at any time, under any circumstance and trust that I will be unbothered.

The exposed trail of carpet snaking along the floor is my trail. I have traveled it many times. It is the easiest path for me to walk and the most difficult for others. Surrounded by empty gum wrappers and a web of wires tickling my feet I have remembered by best moments in life. And, I am recalling one of them to you right now on this dusty, worn keyboard.

So, if I happen to meet a special girl one day who actually sees my room from the hallway and predicts a future with a messy houseguest, she may be right. But until she sees the room from the inside, walks my trail, pushes the shoes out of the way and closes the door, she won’t have a clue about me. It is not clean, but it is safe. Everything is provided, just not on shelves or in drawers. This mess is my nest. I have no problem cleaning my room, but I do not wish to substitute a clean room for a home. I do not refuse to please someone by cleaning it, just not everyone. My room is a testimony of my sincerity. And I hope the few who know me can gauge my character by my personal lifestyle, not by my personal hygiene.