A Place for the Table

For some reason, I've hung on to the big, square, glass dining room table, incongruously modern in a home otherwise filled with distressed wood. Yet I fear there may no longer be room for it in my next chapter. I've lost count. Chapter four? Chapter three and a half? It doesn't matter really, as long as they keep coming. 

I don't even remember why we bought the table, with the oversized metallic and velvety mint green benches and chairs and the side table that is practically invisible but far too heavy to move. I vaguely recall wandering through a store with my husband, noticing the table, deciding I had to have it. Like the full set of dishes I once bought in New York, each one with a different theme -- cartoon people, hats, purses, lady's underwear. At least I use the dishes. 

I'm preparing to downsize again, squeeze myself and only that which I need or really really really want into digs made for one human, one dog. The books that came with me the last time, still in their boxes -- they will go. The clothes my son never took with him, that I thought he might one day come to claim -- they will go. The clothes I never wear, the shelves that exist just to accumulate more stuff -- all of that will go. 

But what of the table? I convince myself, when I look at apartments, that there is room for the ungainly dining room set. I consider giving up couches instead. The mint green chairs are comfortable enough. I don't know why, but I cannot imagine life without that damn table. 

I tend to travel light these days. As I write this, I am sitting with my feet on top of a relatively small carry-on, packed with only the barest essentials for my three and a half day vacation with my daughter. Without much thought, I had grabbed the first few things I saw in my pile of summer clothing, dug out the dreaded bathing suits, knowing I could always hide them, if necessary, under shorts and a tee shirt. A watch, the tiny earrings already in my ears, some mascara, a lipstick. Sensible shoes. 

The dining room table is far too unwieldy to hide, and it is far from sensible, unless you like fingerprints. I don't need it, never did, don't even really really really want it, but still, I cannot imagine writing my next chapter without it.