I can relate to this blogger in a couple of ways. I have a new fun and funky home office that makes me very happy. I started a private practice and I feel like I’m finally a grown up. The sunshine streaming onto the red Persian rug and the IKEA filing cabinet give me a deep feeling of contentment, as do the women and babies who visit me in this sacred space.
Who knew a room could launch you into adulthood?
I spend a strange amount of time not feeling “old enough.” Not old enough to have a house, a car, credit cards, a checkbook. Not being old enough to have a husband and a baby on the way; not old enough to argue with cable companies and insurance representatives, to be grocery shopping independently and gathering tax documents.
Though I don’t obsess about it, I often feel like I’m glancing over my shoulder — waiting for someone else to swoop in and take care of things. Fix the insurance snafus; adjust the thermostat. Be the adult in the room.
It’s scary to realize you’re the adult present. The one throwing the party, taking the phone calls, signing up for health care. It’s all you.
We have a home office. One with built-in cabinetry, outlets for computers, actual computers, a mug with…
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