I moved my computer out of the bedroom. Yeah, I know, it's a whole 10 feet south, in the library, but that's where it is SUPPOSED to be.
I love my laptop. I love lounging on my bed with my laptop. But, it is not a good place to write. It is an excellent place to goof off, however.
This week has been a bit more slow for me. The initial panic cleaning is over, and I'm not yet up to doing Big Projects, so I'm doing maintenance cleaning and Little Projects and some serious goofing off. It was a big deal to pull my ass out of the bedroom. I have a long history with bedrooms.
Like most kids, I lived in my bedroom. I didn't take my toys into other parts of the house -- not allowed, really -- so I played in my room. I had a TV in my room at a ridiculously early age (like, 5) because my dad won a little b/w set in a contest and my parents didn't need it elsewhere in the house. So, I got it. I have had a TV in my room ever since.
When I was a teen, my room was my cave, my sanctuary, my most holy of holies. When I moved in with my dad, I took the master bedroom and the teeny tiny master bath, and he took the rest of the house. This was reinforced when my brother and the so-very-much-ex-sister-in-law moved in. My room was my sanctum and I guarded it carefully (just shy of buying a separate lock and key for it, too, because of said ex-sil and my nieces).
So, having a house of my own, where my stuff could be ANYWHERE, was a weird idea 14 years ago and still is kind of strange. 28 years of conditioning doesn't vanish that fast. I've tried, oh I have tried!, to keep the bedroom just for sleeping and getting dressed and other bedroomish activities, but inevitably I drift back into it. During the Great Depression, I lived there, hardly ever coming out. So, when I retreat there, it makes The Husband nervous.
Well, I'm in the library now. It's a step.