Monday, August 3, 2015

My Blue Table

I slipped out of bed and dressed as quietly as I could while my husband snored in the pre-dawn hours when he sleeps best. I invited Dakota, our yellow lab, to ride along with me and we raced the sunrise toward our appointment.


I had told my friend Jill the day before that I could meet her at 7am to see the table she had refinished and posted for sale on Facebook. I’m a morning person, and after seven years of starting my day at 3:30am to work the morning shift at Starbucks, I felt like I had slept in.


I wasn’t sure I would buy the table, but I was too intrigued by it to let the opportunity pass. When Jill lifted the garage door and I saw its cheery robin egg blue hue in person, I was smitten. It was solid wood, round with a leaf that would increase the surface space if I needed it, and did I mention I loved the color?


It was also just the right price, so I paid my friend and we loaded it into the back of my trusty 13-year-old Suburban. With its legs sticking up in the air like a happy dog asking for a belly rub, I drove my blue table to its new home.


My husband Bob was barely awake when I practically bounced into the bedroom and greeted him with the news. In his defense, he isn’t a morning person and normally we consult each other before purchases of this nature.



After he was coherent, he pulled on a pair of shorts and traipsed out to the garage to see my new prize.

When I lifted the hatch on the Suburban, he was NOT smitten.


It’s blue, he said, dismayed.

I know, I replied calmly.

It’s ugly, he declared, attempting to disparage it.

I like it, I countered, unfazed.


Why do you need a table anyway, he questioned.

I’m a writer. I need a desk, I reasoned.

It’s not a desk, it’s a table, he observed.

It’s my desk and I need it, I stated.

The table now sits in the sunroom facing a large bank of windows. It is already strewn with papers and books, and I sit there daily, writing.

I’ve said it out loud. I am a writer. 

The hard-earned money I spent on a harbinger of hope hasn't made me a writer, but it has given my the dream the gravitas it needs. I’ve always loved words and have a degree that tells the world I know how to put them together to tell stories. Until now, though, I’ve been most comfortable telling other people’s stories.


Today, I begin telling you mine.

Do you have your own version of my blue table? What does it signify? Tell me about it in the comments.

3 comments:

  1. You are a writer! Indeed! so love your blue writing desk my friend...xo

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  2. The first step...declaring it out loud. You are a writer, my friend! Wishing you many productive and happy hours at your robin-egg blue desk. It may not be traditional, but it's full of creativity - like you - and a beautiful spring color. Look forward to hearing your story!

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