I name inanimate objects.
Not little stuff like plates or pillows or hangers, but the big things that matter. I just never thought naming them could change everything.
Years ago, I named my Roomba Rosie as an homage to the Jetsons and we’ve become BFFs during the pandemic. We chat over coffee. I help her deal with some deep-seated bathmat issues. We even joke with each other when she zips under my bed.
Well, until she got stuck there. But that’s another story.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I am an introvert. I’ve lived alone since my 2015 divorce, I don’t have kids, I’ve been working from home for years and my long-distance boyfriend can’t jump on a plane until he gets the vaccine.
Indoor life suited me. For a while.
My decorating style has always been quirky, but divorce gave me carte blanche to (over)fill a new space with beloved items that held deep personal meaning. Except for two refugees inherited from that former life: matching dark brown faux leather couches.
I’d never even named them. That should have been the tip off.
While these couches were pre-COVID practical for multi-human seating, they just didn’t make sense anymore. Honestly, maybe they never did. After spending more time inside than ever, those two dark decor holes made my home feel like it belonged to someone else. Rosie quickly concurred.
But the idea of new furniture was overwhelming. There were measurements to take, budgets and timing to plan for, color, style and layout to overthink and above all, massive change. Which. I. Hate. Buried in swatches, paralyzed by choices, I couldn’t pull the trigger, and I’m sure you know why.
Because it wasn’t about the furniture at all.
Here’s a question: Why does it feel selfish to ask for what you need? Or to do something just for yourself? If you can answer that, you’re way smarter than I.
But that’s how I met the overstuffed purple velvet couch of my dreams. And the first thing I wanted to do was name her.
It felt like a good sign.
On the same day that the brown couches went away, her purpleness arrived. When Facebook friends suggested naming her after our beloved RBG, something clicked. Ruth unapologetically took up as much space as she wanted in my apartment and was warm, bold and unique.
I loved her right away.
Suddenly the floodgates opened. I began to embrace this new openness for me, rather than fill it for others. Practical lamps were replaced by ones with unmistakable personality and color sprouted up everywhere. Ruth soon met Reginald (the flea market bear that used to live at work), Otto (a blush fuzzy foot stool), and Peggy (the brand new persimmon armchair I would never have considered before).
Nothing matched but everything had a name. That’s how I knew it was perfect. Even Rosie took a victory lap.
At some point, I may need to make room for visitors, but now they’ll adjust to my new universe rather than the other way around. And that’s more than ok. Moving beyond pinning hopes to a Pinterest board can be scary, but what’s real will always manifest. Well, if you let it. In the end (or, at the beginning?) I’m grateful to Ruth for showing me how an ugly outside world could create beautiful space inside a real person.
Neutral & nameless is long gone. It’s all me now.
