There have been a lot of tempting pieces of furniture and artwork out there as we finish up work on the house. A new bed here, a new chair there. A new painting, etc.
And I know I've mentioned how much I hate selecting art before, and how I was in a stupor when picking finishes but I haven't been willing to pull the trigger on almost anything for the house. For one, I am running out of room to store things as our appliances are dominating the majority of floor space in our garage.
Just a few nights ago, I was reading from a new book I picked up and smirked to myself while reading the following paragraph:
"Our furniture, he reflected, says so much about us, and our tastes - perhaps more than we like to acknowledge. We may not like a piece of furniture now, but the awkward fact remains that we once were a person who liked it. And unlike clothes, which are jettisoned with passing fashion, furniture has a habit of staying with us, reminding us of tasteless stages of our lives. William looked at his settee; he had bought it at a furniture shop off the Tottenham Court Road - he remembered that much - but he would never buy something like that now. And certainly not in that colour. Did they sill make mauve furniture? he wondered."
And here is the reason I don't want to buy a single thing. Because one day I'm going to look back and wonder, do they still make turquoise velvet arm chairs? And the answer will inevitably be no.