When we lived in the house made of tires, we didn’t have a dresser. Martin hung one little bar for clothes, and we kept everything else in plastic bins, either in the bedroom or in storage. Like most houses made of tires, this house had a serious mouse problem. We didn’t want our clothes getting chewed up or pooped on.
As you may recall, I’m not too keen on how easily the fashion world makes us feel so poorly about ourselves. I remember buying clothes just because I saw the photographs of girls happily wearing them in advertisements. I recall purchasing things that weren’t really me because I thought that they would make me stylish, cool, or just an all-out better version of myself.
There is a new blue knit pillow on our bed.
It’s not really a new item in our house, per say. It used to be a sweater.
I wore this sweater the day Martin and I met. It wasn’t nearly so stretched out and saggy back then. “You should turn it into something,” Martin said when I tossed it into a pile of clothes that didn’t fit anymore. (Nostalgia is our middle name.)