My college futon wasn’t just a “couch” in my minuscule studio apartment – it served as my bed and bed to my one-too-many-drinks-to-drive friends who visited my college town and crashed at my place. It was quaint (my small studio was), with a brick column in the middle of the room, with a closet for a toilet (literally) and a shower stall that washed the smoky muck away from the restaurants I worked for rent money.
My futon is where I moped with salty tears from an ugly break up, or hunkered down when I felt under the weather. It was where I sat and dreamed of my life with my future husband and children; where I mothered ailing friends, swooned over crushes; where I played video games, drew pictures, crammed for tests, and hosted company, with feast-like celebrations of Hamburger Helper and Pasta Roni.
I’ve always been craftfully artful in my way of decorating on a dime. My inexpensive way to decorate was posters and magazine cut outs artfully plastered to the walls around the room, but it was mine, even if just for a little while.
My first tastes of freedom, of womanhood, and of life.
(I performed this writing exercise about one of the many couches in our past with Casey & Steph with a pencil, paper and three minutes. Want to join along?)
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