Evolution and Intelligent Design

If you have clicked on today’s blog thinking that I am going to engage in a philosophically- or politically-charged diatribe on Creationism, you will be disappointed.  While I believe wholeheartedly in Natural Selection and the selfish, persistent, survivalist nature of our genes, you will not find this argued here.  This is a blog in defense of perpetual decorating.  Let’s just lay it on the line:  there is nothing in my house that cannot be made better, newer, more colorful, or more comfortable.

For many years my husband has tried, in vain, to preserve the domestic status quo.  He does not appreciate his surroundings, turning a blind eye to most things unless they are bound in a medical journal and proven with a high degree of statistical significance.   Once, while sitting in a restaurant, I asked him to describe the items in our living room and he could not—not the color of the walls, the existence of an area rug, the configuration of sofa and chairs, the art on the walls.   He actually asked, “Which one is the living room?”  For this reason, my frequent need to rearrange furniture baffles him.  Nor does he realize that when I say a chair or sofa should be moved, it is not a hypothetical scenario or a question; it means “get up and help me move it NOW.” 

It has been nearly impossible to convince my husband to participate in replacing, repairing or reupholstering an item of furniture.  He simply does not understand an activity that requires expenditure but does not increase function.  A worn and torn chair is as easy to sit on as a new one.  By his logic, why pay for a new chair when it will not be as comfortable as the old one?  If he had his way, he would still watch television from an ancient chair that I picked up in 1982 for five dollars from a friend who was moving cross-country.  For years, he clung to it, swearing that nothing could be more comfortable; it fit his six-foot-four frame to a T.  Although that chair followed us when we moved from Boston to San Francisco in 1984, my husband was oblivious to the fact that it was not among our things when we arrived in Atlanta in 1990.  Score one for me.

Despite the permanence my husband attaches to things that we have, he is surprisingly disengaged when it comes to picking them out.  He does not suffer weekend shopping expeditions well, preferring to watch football, or Bob Ross reruns, rather than sharing quality time in a treasure hunt.  As a result, I have carte blanche when I shop.  One who chooses not to participate, I would argue, has no ex post facto rights of refusal or reprimand.

Decorating is a form of nesting; we women do it instinctively.  Unlike our male counterparts, who would happily reposition a pile of dirty clothes to find a place to sleep, or don’t wash the dishes until the sink is overflowing with them, women are naturally wired to function as “domestic environmentalists.”  We enforce order and aesthetics on our surroundings as a way of caring for our mates and our young.   When we need to put a new paint treatment on the walls, or retile the shower, or hang new Roman shades, you can darn well believe that everyone’s wellbeing depends upon it.  And furthermore, we will not sleep at night until the job is done.

Over the years we not only moved from San Francisco to Atlanta to New England, but we also moved from a tiny Victorian house to a southern farm house to a suburban 70s contemporary.  If the periods of the homes themselves did not dictate a change in style, then our evolution from thirty-something to forty-something to fifty-something certainly has.  Suffice it to say, we have evolved as human beings.  I no longer want to live with the cluttered blue-and-white country style furnishings with which I surrounded myself thirty years ago any more than I want to carry around my childhood “Hi Heidi” doll in her matching pocketbook.   Even after thirteen years in our current home, I am still problem-solving the rooms, embracing new ways to achieve an eclectic mix of well-made furnishings with the spoils of our travels.

This is now the longest we have lived in a single location; the fixed context is wreaking havoc with my adapted decorating behavior.  My husband is starting to notice when I sunset a piece of furniture.  “Didn’t we just buy this?” he asked when I demanded a new mattress after thirteen years.  “We just painted the house!” he admonished when I scheduled the painting crew of scaffold-climbers that had all but forgotten us from seven years ago.  And now I need to reupholster a pair of sofas.  My husband remembers when I bought these sofas twelve years ago.  He remembers how I waited sixteen weeks for them to be built and shipped from upstate New York.  He remembers how much I loved them for their solid wood construction and double-wrapped cushions.  He remembers holding the door as the white-glove delivery guys carried them into the house and around the tricky corner into the front room.  They were quality pieces that were supposed to represent long-lasting value.  So why do I need to do anything to them?

What my husband doesn’t see is the way the corners are worn threadbare from the kids hanging over the arms and backs.  Or the way his nightly newspaper reading has worn a butt-shaped indentation in one particular cushion.   Or the way the center edges of the cushions have collapsed where I spent two months “couch-ridden” after Achilles tendon surgery.  Although I have been diligent about rotating the cushions regularly, the damage is now well distributed across the fronts and backs of every surface.  Had I bought new furniture, I could have slipped out the old as the new appeared and my husband would have been none the wiser.  Eventually he may have asked, “Are these new?”  But the problem arose because I chose the more responsible and Earth-friendly alternative.  There is no way to reupholster the sofas without having them go missing from the house for a couple of weeks.  Carefully, I tried to present a scenario that left no doubt about what had to be done.

Now my husband has caught on to me.  He saw me eyeing the master bathroom with a bit too much interest.  He noticed that the tape measure migrated from its hook in the garage to permanent residence inside the house.  He found my secret stash of fabric swatches and paint chips.  But then something strange happened.  Suddenly he started tagging along on my Saturday “errands run.” He sat for two hours in a fabric warehouse while I collected upholstery samples.  He actually chose the fabric for the sofas, learning about double-rub counts and how to assess them in both morning and evening light. 

I could not understand his sudden change in attitude, but to tell the truth, it was fun having him along while I shopped.  When I could get him to render an opinion about things, I found that it was easy to accommodate his tastes with mine; we both love natural materials.  But when I asked him why he was suddenly getting involved after all these years he blushed a little.  “I saw the way you were looking at the kitchen cabinets, like you couldn’t wait to replace them,” he said.  “I don’t want you looking at me that way!”

Tomorrow's blog:  Anonymous