I remember awhile back I bought a shirt. I saw it hanging in the store, and although it wasn't something that I would normally choose, I was looking for something different. My wardrobe consists of basically three or four styles repeated over and over. Variations on a theme, I like to say. So childish. So rigid. Not any more. This shirt would be a symbol of me trying something new, breaking out of the box and stepping out of my comfort zone. The color was good. It fit perfectly. It was a no brainer.
I took it home, head held high in celebration of my style rut liberation, but somehow every time I wore it, I just wasn't comfortable. It's like I was wearing somebody else's shirt, not my own. Eventually, it got pushed back to the corner of the closet until I could finally admit defeat. I wanted to love it. I tried to love it. But as much as I liked it, never in a million years could that like blossom into love. It just wasn't me.
When we sold our home in Arizona, part of the offer was that the buyers wanted the house "exactly" the way was. Which, translated, means that a bunch of our furniture would stay, one of those pieces being our king size bed. It ended up working out better in the long run, since there's no way it would've fit in our new itty bitty bedroom. Not only that, but I had a chance to do something a little different and get this upholstered headboard that I loved.
But, just like the shirt, it just never felt quite right.
I tried slip covering it. Changing the color of the walls. Hanging different things above it in a last ditch effort to redeem myself. In the end, it didn't matter what I did, because it just wasn't me.
Fast forward to this house, 3 years later, and I couldn't take it any more. It was time to let go. And start my period. Only notable because, as my family can bear testimony to, everything is unbearable to me come the middle of the month. I made the bed, took a photo, and listed it online. 24 hours later it was gone.
Except for bacon.