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Good Days
I used to take five minutes every morning to think about my daily loves.
(like this, in 2009)
Today, that list would read:
1. being home
2. fresh laundry
3. my neighbor’s violin
4. Italian Eggs at Dizzy’s
5. messy dining room table
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“A Roomy 178 Square Feet”
This is one of those fantastic examples of tiny New York living that make me grateful to have a space as large as I do.
Especially because I’m so sensitive about being elbowed in the ribs — I know it’s done all the time, but two people in 178 square feet just won’t do (for us, anyway).
Still, the story is compelling, and even more compelling is the description of Zach, the man behind the meager square footage. The writer, Penelope, whose name I adore, is obviously beguiled by him, and there’s a part of me that wishes to beguile someone so much as to produce such a strange choice of affect to describe me.
He has a sailor’s sense of thrift and handiness; he built the breakfast counter/front-hall table, which doubles as a cabinet.
It’s not the most universally flattering of descriptions, but there’s something so attractive about it — the implication of something so raw, so uncurated and real, that you can’t help but think, wow, what a cool guy. (Which is, of course, much less interesting than the phrasing above.) Anyway, the instilled result in me has been covetous — I can’t help my mind from wandering back toward wanting something like that (but different — so different) to be said about me.
Which of course makes me laugh at human nature (and more precisely, at myself) for the constant desire to be put in the right box. Put us in the wrong box, and oh, hell, the wrath that will come upon the misinformed organizer; but put us in the right box, and it’s the most flattering and gratifying external encapsulation of self we’ll ever find. What a strange but lovely gift.
