This morning I was feeling quite pleased with myself because it was the first time in my adult life that I had a true walk-in closet (and it happened before I turn 40!). I was so overjoyed and that I had one of those "I feel like a character from Sex in the City" moments, to which only girls of a certain age can relate, as I placed my first pair of shoes in my new closet. With great gusto--and alone with my dramatic devices--I anointed my favorite pair of shoes (white Birkenstocks, obviously) queen of the closet. It was a Carrie Bradshaw meets Austin wannabe hippie mom moment.
Several hours later; however, the moment came crashing down. Literally. But let me back up a for a second. I neglected to tell you that the night before I became a true adult with a closet, Alex and I stayed up until 3:00am assembling that closet. It was someone's brilliant idea to start the project around 10:00pm when the children were sound asleep and the wine was flowing because anyone who has ever tried to renovate a house will tell you you get nothing done with children around. And wine makes home projects more fun. Do you see what a great idea this was?
The only setbacks were 1) we don't have a functioning light in our bedroom, which made reading directions a little tricky and 2) it was 10:00pm and the wine was flowing when someone decided to embark upon this project. I'm that someone, by the way, and I stand by my decision.
Back to the crash the following day: some time around mid-afternoon I heard a suspicious noise from our bedroom. It sounded too loud to be any sort of rodent activity, so I checked it out without hesitation. When I looked in the closet I discovered one of our sturdy hanging units had separated itself from the wall. It could have been a disaster, but luckily the other screws were holding on for dear life and kept the shelves and hanging rod afloat. Apparently Alex and I had missed a stud--even after my big joke of the night where I referred to myself as the true "stud finder"--when we were screwing the hanging thing (that's what you call it at 2:00 in the morning) into the wall.
I should note that the endangered shelves and a hanging rod had already been meticulously organized by me. Even going off three hours of sleep, I can organize a closet; however, my spirit may not have recovered if I had had to witness my day's work strewn recklessly about. That would not have been a Sex in the City moment.
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