The Folded Clock: A Diary

Chapter 72: January 4

Today my husband and I decided to rearrange our furniture. Our apartment has never looked right to me; probably we should hire an expert to fix it, but I am too proud. I am too convinced that I am secretly a decorating prodigy and to pay for professional help is beneath me. I understand that, with all of the money in the world, and all of the space, a person would require some help to sort through the infinite options available to her. I don’t have such problems. I like what I can afford. I like what fits. Within these narrower choice parameters, I usually choose well.

In this apartment, however, my talents have been stymied. Five years after moving in I’ve yet to crack the code. The light, as I’ve noted, is an issue. The light comes from the wrong direction. The rooms are oddly shaped, and the walls are full of doors and windows. My husband tries to discuss with me what to do with the apartment — how we might better sit in it and walk through it — but I often grow testy with him when he broaches home improvement topics. I cannot explain why, save to say that my inability to properly inhabit this apartment feels like a personal failing; I am embarrassed that I need his help. When I disagree with where he wants to put a piece of furniture, I tell myself that he has a terrible sense of space (he doesn’t). He cannot eyeball a void, I tell myself, and understand what it is capable of accepting. He’ll suggest we put a bed against a wall that is, to me at least, obviously too short. He’ll insist, gamely, that we try it. I insist it’s pointless to try. I hate that I can’t just say, “Sure, let’s move that bed,” and let the bed be right or wrong. Let the objects in the house fail or succeed to fit in it, not me.