November 25th, 18:01 | Does anyone else fantasize about furniture shopping?

So this weekend we went furniture shopping. *sigh* I just realized that there's a mini-back-history I have to explain about that, which is pretty sad, considering what a simple sentence that is. So...

I currently live with my parents in a house. A glorious house. A house I've lived in all my life. I love this house. We've repainted or papered most of it, and I remember all the times. The front garden, albeit somewhat abandoned due to my "Darwinism Now!" attitude (umm, and the fact that it's November), is mine. I love this house. But we're moving. Apparently my mom feels it's too big for just her and my dad (and me, when I'm in town), so they've bought an apartment, which is being built (as we speak!) and which will theoretically be ready next June. Oh joy.

One of the things I've totally taken for granted in my life is space. If we want, each of us can have our own floor in that house. If I'm sick of being in there, there's two different parks I can walk to, and a bunch of different strip malls. A library. The video store. A pond next to the community work-out centre thingy place (where my yoga classes are, actually). If I want to escape, there are a zillion places I can just up and go to. Or I can hide in the basement.

The apartment is approximately a third the size of our house. We all live on the same floor. With the same amount of furniture and other crap. This worries my mom, who's convinced we'll never fit it all in. (She's probably right.) So. Saturday, amongst other things, we went bed-shopping to find newer, smaller, beds. (And in the case of mine, beds with mucho storage space underneath. I am a packrat of the nth degree.)

(Apologies as I've just realized that this spawns another small history.)

My bed is an oldschool ikea bed -- back from when they still used European sizes. It's wider than single or twin, longer than double. And it's foam. About five years ago, maybe six, my parents had a new mattress made for me. And it's perfect. I like hard beds, and detest spring beds, so this foam is my dream. It made me sore to sleep on, after I got used to the shitty Kingston bed, but I love my bed. My only beef with it, is that it's not very high. I love high beds.

So. You can imagine how thrilled I was about the prospect of throwing out my non-standard, perfect-sized, perfect-mattressed bed when we move. On thinking about it since then, I don't think I'd mind so much. I'd get the new mattress made at the same place, same foam, and the new one could be higher. Possibly with posts! But... I think I'm clinging. I want something to stay of everything that the house meant to me.

Well, that was quite the tangent. This entry had originally been meant to be about the shopping. In the store, wandering around all the beds, and sitting on them. Thinking about where I'd put mine, and the kinds of linens and things, and that I love chaises longues, and how I want one in my bedroom when I have my own place.

As we wandered through, I thought of my ex. We used to go, after Tuesday brunches (hot chocolate for me, darjeeling for him, chocolate croissants, and crosswords!) and wander up Princess St., which is Kingston's main "shopping" road. We usually used-book-store-trawled, or bought specialty pasta and chocolate-covered espresso beans.

I'd asked him once if we could go furniture shopping. Pretend. Just to look. Pretend we were newlyweds or something. Just for fun. He said yes, but we never went. Never had the time, I guess.

And I realize how frivolous and silly it sounds. But I remember the day when I asked; it was all rainy, and I was splashing through puddles on the street, and we went into one of the new book stores. I asked him right after we'd crossed the street and he'd laughed and said "we'll see" (which he always insisted wasn't the same as "no").

I felt so lost in that store. I couldn't even tell you why. There's times when I think about him, and think that, yes, there's a lot of things I didn't like, and that hurt, but all in all, I was happy, and I would like to be back with him. Except that I said no. I'm glad I did. I'm sure this is mostly stemming from some bizarre fear of being alone at 43 or something, but it's still there. That I was safe and warm for a time, even with all my little dreams we never did (it would have been impossible to -- I kept thinking them up all the time) and now I'm... standing on a street corner on a rainy Kingston morning, looking across the street at me skipping arm-in-arm with him and trying to tell myself I'm not missing out and to keep walking.

I think I'm trying to say I'm lonely. Am I though?

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