The Real Tragedy

I'm still trying to come to terms with the fact that, as an adult, my bedroom is no longer a place to play and/or hang out.

(Irrelevant note: I also struggle with a lasting temptation to invite people over to "play" instead of "hang out".)

It pains me, ever-so-slightly, that the bedroom I meticulously organize and maintain will rarely, if ever, be seen by my friends. I've noticed, when giving "tours" around my apartment, that people are willing to take only a couple of steps into the room before tossing out a light compliment and booking it for the hallway.

I can only suppose that the reason for this is a silently- but generally-accepted recognition that the bedroom of an adult (and especially an adult living with a significant other) is a place for Private Things. Perhaps visitors fear that if they spend too much time in the bedroom of an acquaintance the seedy romance novels, vibrators and leather harnesses tucked away in drawers and dark corners will reveal themselves. After that, let's face it, there's no turning back. Better just to make your exit to the more neutral living room. Because only family-friendly activities take place in living rooms, right?

Anyway. That's just a theory.

Living rooms suck, though. Nothing beats stretching out on a bed with your best friend to talk for hours. My entire adolescence - from childhood up to the end of my undergraduate career - is dotted with afternoons and evenings spent this way. And I miss it.

So there it is: reason no. 2907 that growing up sucks a big one. Let's turn this one around, ok? Get back on in my bedroom, folks. That's where it's at.