As Bungalux grew beyond my circle of friends and acquaintances I gradually stopped writing personal stories. But when I thought of today’s style pick, I couldn’t help thinking about the few years I spent sharing a room with my younger sister Vanessa (aka: Vani).
Today’s style pick is twin beds, an old-fashioned concept that very few of us use anymore. Why? We’re living in an age of “own rooms.” One of the first, most obvious criteria, all of my clients has when looking for a house is that each of the kids has to have his or her own room. An “own room” is a right for kids now – “own room” falls with indoor plumbing, iPhones, and MacBook Pros in the group of things every entitled kid growing up in the post Space Odyssey era must have.
But “must have” they?
My littlest years were spent sharing a room with my sister. I don’t remember much about those years, but most of the memories were clustered around my sister and the time we spent in our bedroom with twin beds covered in patchwork and clowns. Even then I would fall asleep earlier than my sister, and I never fell asleep alone. Vani and I played weird games like who could have the floppiest arm and we would hide in forts and talk about what we thought Santa would bring. In the rare nights I couldn’t sleep and my sister could, I remember hearing her breathing in the middle of the night. The rhythm calmed me, told me I could get there too.
Interestingly, despite that, one of the most exciting days for me was when I was in second grade and my family moved into a house big enough for me to have my “own room.” I was the oldest, so I got the sun-drenched bedroom in the front of the house. I also got to approve samples for my room, so it was lots of blue and pink and flowers all on pure white carpet. I had a double bed. I had finally gotten rid of my little sister.
Or had I?
Something interesting happened when I moved into my own room. Although I loved my bright frilly palace, I still spent a lot of time in my sister’s room. She had inherited our twin beds. Her room wasn’t as well-decorated as mine – at least in my second grade opinion – and it was in the back of the house so I couldn’t oversee the comings-and-goings of my neighborhood friends. Yet I still plopped down on her bed and played floppy arm game and chatted about new, more grown-up things now and did homework together.
Years later, and a few boyfriends later, I’m single. I have my “own room.” It overlooks the ocean and I hear the waves – in-out-in-out. But sometimes it’s still too quiet. That’s when I pick up the phone. And the first call is always to my sister.
Photos courtesy of DERING HALL, Veranda, and Pinterest.