Classic Sports illustrated covers adorned the rustic wood paneled walls as tacky met vintage in a mash up of thrift store finds, curb alert pick-ups, and my grandfather’s hand me downs. All found a home in the one room that welcomed all items without regard to age or wear.
It was a room for items old and odd. There’s the disconnected rotary phone, a torn Saturday Evening Post cover from the 1930’s, a miniature drum set, a painting of Shea Stadium, and my wife’s nemesis; the 1970’s style desk she has lamented since the day I pulled into the yard with it in the back of my truck (along with the shattered back window due to me not securing it). It was truly a room that could only be appreciated by a guy.
But as we prepare for the next chapter in adulthood, changes are necessary, if not inevitable. Our guest room is becoming the baby’s room, which means my office is becoming the guest room, which means my things are banished to the basement.
Not to go down wiithout a fight (or just whining), I moaned and complained with each trip down the stairs, and at one point I may or may not have said something about not wanting to grow up. Kicking and screaming, I carried sports memorabilia, concert posters, and that trusty rotary phone down to my its new location, and as I hung my football pennants on the wall and adjusted my posters, I realized that growing up means making sacrifices.