Naturally, Jon and I don’t believe in traditional, almost stereotypical room identities. The boundaries of bedroom, office, dining room, and den not only overlap quite a bit but are nearly obliterated.
These days, I rarely admit to anyone that I had been an interior designer for almost twenty years. I imagine that ambulance drivers, the men who installed heat downstairs, or even the home healthcare nurses all take a second look and study my long hair, whiskers, and mismatched clothes.
They whisper among themselves that I must be delusional. Eyes roll. Heads shake. As they leave the house, they all mumble something embarrassing and judgmental. The same folks are likely to call a supervisor and report all sorts of “goings-on” at Marklewood.
“I need back-up, Mavis. We’ve got a live one out here in the country. I think he might be some mountain man who wandered far from Stokes County.”
It can be laughed off as an all-encompassing final stage of the serious, but little known Howard Hughes Syndrome.
Besides, we couldn’t be hoarders. The kitchen and bathrooms are neat and relatively tidy.
We wouldn’t tell anyway.
(Image: Design Sketch for “Boudoir” by Maurice Dufrène, 1906.)