In My Guest Room

This morning I stepped into a busy subway car. I took my place amongst the huddled mass and fixed my sight on the nearest advertisement, for honey.  I believe that my reaction to advertisements is adverse; I see past the product into the composition of the advertisement itself.  So this morning I was not thinking about my consumption of honey.  I was thinking about the talent involved in creating the image—the perfectly crafted stream of honey that pools in concentric circles onto a spoon.  Sadness and shame washed over me in that moment.  “The world is changing,” I thought, “and I’m unprepared. From here on out, my life will be harder than for the person who was able to photoshop honey.”

I, like so many Americans now, sometimes feel a sense of despair when contemplating the future.  In the economic turmoil of the last couple of years, millions of people find themselves displaced and in a state of uncertainty.  The uneducated have been mechanically automated; once thriving crafts and skills have become obsolete.  The middle class is seeing a reversal in its fortune, and I’m anxious.  But I confidently tell myself that I’m not in this group of people. My skill set has not yet gone by the way side; my degree is still valid (to a point).  And despite my overwhelming, crippling, paralyzing, burdensome and relentless student loan debt, I think I’ll easily secure a place for myself in the middle class (and my resignation would allow me to be happy there).

However I am not yet a member of the middle class—this is an important fact.  I consider myself in the educated poor, but that is a different story entirely.  I will, however, reach my middle class status; and when I do, be certain that I will have the luxury of a guest room!

The idea of a guest room, at the moment, is completely absurd—a room, for guests, that I keep?  It’s such a novelty. It’s so middle class. It’s my new aspiration.

At some point I may think, “I want to decorate my guest room with paintings of speedboats.” (These speedboats will represent, in some way, my childhood memories of the Tennessee River.)  I may think, “The bedspread will be from my grandmother’s collection.  And remember my old teddy bear from the 1980s? Maybe I’ll put it in my guest room, too.”  How marvelous it will be.  My guest room will be but one area of display in my home.  I’ll showcase my status as a firm middle classer. I’ll celebrate it, and learn to appreciate every sentimental object that I haven’t already thrown in the trash.

And I’ll place plastic speedboats on my dining room table.  I’ll consume, and I’ll consume.  My home will be my trophy case, albeit a small one.  I’ll consume until I’ve recreated my childhood, my travels, all of my earthly experiences.  And I’ll become bogged down in the past and in the present.  And I won’t save, and I won’t worry, because I’m in the middle class.

And when my skill set becomes obsolete, I can lament my troubles.  But I’ll be more prepared than some.  I’ll have my guest room, and I’ll take in boarders.  Or I’ll create an urban bed and breakfast.  Or I’ll invite my mother to live with me—we’ll split the rent and have meager dinner parties.

I’ll persevere when I become obsolete.  I’ll remember the advertised honey, and I’ll remember what I thought then: “The world is changing, and I’m unprepared.  From here on out, my life will be harder than for the person who was able to photoshop honey.”

And although I’ve already planned for my future fall from the middle class, I’m still anxiously anticipating the moment when I look into my guest room with a smile on my face.