My husband is out in the garage waxing a desk for me. The desk was a dump find from over a year ago. After tossing our garbage and separating our recycling, we had spotted an older gentleman unloading a scuffed wooden desk from the back of his pickup truck.
We had offered to help–by taking the desk from him and sliding it top-down into the backseat of our car. I have a weakness for wooden furniture.
We brought it home, pulled up the garage door, and were reminded of my weakness. Wooden tables and chairs in various stages of repair and disrepair stared back at us, accusatory. I had an especially sharp pang of regret when I caught sight of a half-sanded leg from the table I had picked up at the dump and planned on using for an office desk. My husband just sighed, moved a few things around, and tucked the newest member of our furniture family between the kayaks and the lawnmower.
A year later, my decision to quit my job in favor of freelancing necessitated a return to the garage. I needed a desk. Yes, our computer is a laptop, but I did not intend on editing manuscripts 30 hours per week without a desk. I scored a sweet chair and bookshelves from my old office, rearranged our home office to my liking, and left room for the unfinished desk. We mounted a corkboard to the wall, above where the desk will go. We placed a leaf-printed jute rug, in soothing neutrals, between the loveseat and where the desk will go.
In the past two weeks, the desk has been sanded with more tools than I can count (facilitated by more trips to Lowes and WalMart than I care to think about) and stained to a deep brown. It’s not long for the garage now. After the waxing it will sit a day or two before joining me in the office–joining me, the one reclined on the loveseat, feet on the office chair like lady luxurious, books and papers strewn across the jute rug all the way to the bookshelves.
This will be my office.