ON haPpInEsS
The fact that this week's Business Section of the Sunday New York Times featured a piece exploring happiness (But Will it Make You Happy by Stephanie Rosenbloom) was food enough for thought. The central line of the article rode on the experience of a couple, $30,000 in debt, who sold most of their things and moved to a studio in Portland, Oregon. They're now out of debt, working less and playing more.
I couldn't help but immediately look up at the space surrounding me: my shelves of design books and literature, a bust that had displayed hats in the old Bamberger's department store, my gilt mirrors topped by an 18th century lithograph of a comtesse at her writing desk, my beloved, beloved, grey tweed sectional, with the chaise the width of a bed. I had literally dreamed for years about having a furnished apartment. From just a futon and one chair, 10 years later. I now had a place that made me smile, that I felt safe in. I treasure each and every piece.
There are times when I think I should really sell my stuff off, that I could use the money, that I could clear some long- standing debts. But something inside rebels.
Every single item was hard won. Each piece represents blood, toil and cliche as it may sound, tears. I am literally, at this moment, in a fight to maintain a space that has been my haven, that has cradled me in moments of sheer despair.
Yet, at the same time, I've realized I need a life that is on my terms.
I'd really rather not do the 9 to 5 anymore, to let someone else profit from my expertise and long hours and still fuck me in the ass at the end of it all.
I also know I need some sort of sabbatical, which can only truly comfortably happen until I have upped my income a bit.
I think if I could just spend two weeks in Tahiti, or on a transatlantic cruise, I'll be ok.
The yearning to flee to a shack near the sea will stop.
I couldn't help but immediately look up at the space surrounding me: my shelves of design books and literature, a bust that had displayed hats in the old Bamberger's department store, my gilt mirrors topped by an 18th century lithograph of a comtesse at her writing desk, my beloved, beloved, grey tweed sectional, with the chaise the width of a bed. I had literally dreamed for years about having a furnished apartment. From just a futon and one chair, 10 years later. I now had a place that made me smile, that I felt safe in. I treasure each and every piece.
There are times when I think I should really sell my stuff off, that I could use the money, that I could clear some long- standing debts. But something inside rebels.
Every single item was hard won. Each piece represents blood, toil and cliche as it may sound, tears. I am literally, at this moment, in a fight to maintain a space that has been my haven, that has cradled me in moments of sheer despair.
Yet, at the same time, I've realized I need a life that is on my terms.
I'd really rather not do the 9 to 5 anymore, to let someone else profit from my expertise and long hours and still fuck me in the ass at the end of it all.
I also know I need some sort of sabbatical, which can only truly comfortably happen until I have upped my income a bit.
I think if I could just spend two weeks in Tahiti, or on a transatlantic cruise, I'll be ok.
The yearning to flee to a shack near the sea will stop.
posted by euphoria at 12:07 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home