I’ve always loved the idea of finally moving into my first house. In high school, I would spend my summers at my older sister’s apartment, and thought that at 18 or 19, I would make my first place that perfect, too. Much to my surprise -- though it shouldn’t have been -- that wasn’t exactly the case.
If someone would have told me a year ago that I would have two recliners in my dining room, I probably would have done that thing where you disappointedly laugh until you start uncontrollably crying. I’m the girl who said she understood it was our first house and it didn’t have to be perfect, but still wanted to buy everything brand new. Looking back, I would probably be more realistic have the same mentality, but at least I can say I’ve learned some valuable lessons (and often got to exchange an uncomfortable wooden chair for a nice leather recliner at the dining room table during dinner).
I think, if anything, my first home taught me I can’t always get my way. Call it sad (or lucky), but that hasn’t really been a lesson learned until recently. I’ve loved sharing a house with my best friends, but to say we are all different is a huge understatement. In regards to furnishing our five-bedroom home, there was a lot to consider. In a battle between necessity and desire, the former always won, even if I wanted them to tie. In other words, why would we buy a brand new rug when someone’s mom had an old one collecting dust in the garage? I would say because a new one is cuter and cleaner and would be sure to match the couches, but evidently, not everyone agreed.
To avoid sounding spoiled: I actually ended up contributing to most of our eclectic decor. My mom owns a really cute secondhand resale shop, but instead of thoughtfully choosing from her enormous collection, we got frantic and had to take whatever was most functional. That meant bringing my childhood dining room table and five chairs made of different-colored wood (because we lost the matching ones a long time ago) -- needless to say, not my first choice. At first, I thought I would find the time to paint them or get a tablecloth or something, but it’s a lot harder than it sounds when you’re a full-time student with no one to help you partake in that kind of not-so-DIY project, which honestly, wouldn’t have turned out right anyway. (I wish I had an explanation for why my mother and sister are the most creative people I know, and the only thing I’m good at is reading books, but alas, here we are.)
As a wannabe Joanna Gaines, writing this makes me sad. Knowing my house had such wasted potential is very upsetting, and I feel like I’ve let the high school version of myself down -- I’m truly sorry, high school Mikayla. But, if I’m being completely honest, I can’t really say there was a lot to do about the endless white (and also impenetrable) wall space in such a big house; it just didn’t feel homey, and with so many differing personalities in one place, I don’t know how it could have. I also have to consider the toilet that has never flushed properly, the bathtub that takes two hours to drain, and the basement that was once described to the home’s previous tenants as a “perfect makeshift meth lab” by a homeless woman…I’m not really sure anyone could have made that homey.
There’s actually a small part of me (a very, very small part) that finds our water-stained futon and mismatching chairs kind of endearing, but there’s a much larger part of me that can’t wait to decorate my new apartment how I want to -- and to finally not have to yell “I’m going to go get my laundry; if I don’t come back up in five minutes, I probably died!,” when I go downstairs.
And while it’s not always expected or ideal to downgrade (in a sense), at least now I won’t feel like I’m doing homework in a Goodwill, and honestly, that’s very important to me.
