It’s been over a year since I moved into my apartment, and I just bought a rug for my room. I also hung some paintings that I had from back home, but that’s not as monumental as buying this rug. The rug itself is rather inconsequential. It’s black and white in a zigzag pattern and a bit shaggy. I bought it from Target, where it’s been mass produced in multiple factories and distributed across every Target in the country. It is literally one in a million, but it is also one in a million because it is now my rug.
Why did it take me so long to buy a rug? Well, I hate commitment. Since I began living on my own, I’ve been averse to decorating. In college (the first time), I moved into a small dorm that couldn’t have been more than 200 square feet. On opposite sides of the room were two small twin-size beds. Neither myself nor my roommate at the time had any interest in decorating. I don’t know what his reasoning was, but I found decorating foolish. A dormitory is a transient space, it’s not meant to be lived in for more than two semesters. What was the point of pimping out my room with LED lights and hanging up school memorabilia when at the end of the semester I’d have to dismantle the whole thing? Tastes change, too, and who’s to say I wouldn’t wake up one morning, decide I hated everything, and tear down the walls? It’s a waste of time, space, and money. I’ve held onto that mentality in every state and apartment I’ve lived in. Each subsequent apartment remained bare. Easy to get in, easy to get out.
This is not to say my room is empty besides this newfound rug. I’m not giving ‘DL’ trade who lives in a room with a stained mattress on the floor where twinks go to die. There are certain standards to meet. I have a mattress, a bed frame with cabinets and cubbies, and multiple sets of sheets. These, however, were left over from the previous occupant, so they weren’t even mine to begin with. I have a lamp, too, and the aforementioned paintings, but those were all transplants from my parent’s place in New Jersey. It’s easy to assimilate to the randomness of it all because I don’t have to commit to it, and, at the end of the day, when it’s time to move again—which I will inevitably do—I’ll be able to leave the room behind and return the paintings back to my parents. It’s easier to move forward and assimilate to what’s to come, whatever that may be.
Shopping for furniture is a fraught experience. I’ll go to Crate & Barrel, Target, or Ikea and be overwhelmed with anxiety. I’ll see a bunch of tables that I like and struggle to decide which I should buy. Do I want the cherry wood finish or the mahogany? Endless possibilities mean the potential for endless mistakes. Nothing in there is unique either. It’s not made for me; it’s made for the masses. Looking at the catalog of options, the homogeneous nature of the items kills any expression of individuality. Nothing screams personality. It’s all so uniform and unfeeling. I never end up buying anything.
Dating in New York is similarly challenging. I go online or go to a bar and swipe/look through a lineup of potential guys. I appraise men like I do furniture. Do I want to bring him home? Does he match the walls? Would he look good on my couch? In my bed? Does it come in a bigger size? Returning furniture and men is a hassle. There’s nothing worse than bringing someone or something home and after a week realizing it doesn’t fit or that I find no comfort in it. I’ve invested time, I’ve wasted time, and there’s just not enough time in the world.
As I’ve gotten older, I’m still scared of commitment, but the fear of being alone has only grown. My hodgepodge of a room is screaming for some life and warmth. Similarly, I’m screaming for the same thing. Recently, I looked around my room and thought, if I were to die inexplicably in my sleep, I would be surrounded by nothing. This room doesn’t hold me. So to change that, I decided to buy a rug to create a room that not only would I want to live in, but someone else as well. Baby steps.
I marched into my local Target on 14th street and went to the housing section. There, I found four different rugs for sale. I fondled the soft synthetic bristles which left no impression on me. A slew of variations of the same. I almost couldn’t do it, but if I couldn’t commit to a rug, how could I commit to a guy? Throwing caution away, I grabbed one of the rugs and slung it over my shoulder.
Checking out was a task. Placing the oversized rug on the pint-sized scanner and locating the even-smaller barcode nearly broke me. I then trudged across streets and avenues and cut through the StuyTown courtyard carrying this rug. This is what commitment is; it’s cumbersome. When I got home, I rolled my rug out on the floor and laid atop it. Commitment, as I learned in that moment, is also comforting and rewarding.
I’ve had this rug now for a little over a month. I let the discomfort of commitment pass and have grown to enjoy, maybe even love having a rug. I’ve stained this rug, stretched on this rug, fucked on this rug, and when I wake up in the morning and step out of bed, my feet are gently caressed and protected from the cold by this rug. It reminds me that this rug is mine and only mine. It makes me want to have more things to fill this space and call my own, like a chair, or a bookshelf. Maybe even a guy.