This weekend my parents paid a visit, and as always it was great to see them. In days when it is far too easy to forget who you are, seeing where you came from is quite the grounding point. I needed that.
My parent’s are the easiest house guests to entertain because no real entertaining occurs. They simply don’t require it. In fact, going to Sam’s Club to buy my father V8 was the most activity we really did. And we all know how much of a blast that can be. Woo.
Throughout the weekend, both my mother and my father (whom I respect and love quite deeply) continually commented on our house and how they like what we’ve done with painting, decorating and other updates. The first time or two I was flattered, but the more they made mention of it, the more I questioned if it was all slightly forced. I’m still not sure.
Anyone who’s a mildly regular reader around these parts knows that I have an interest in a compulsion to change everything in our house. I write and talk, often ad nauseum, about completed, bungled or looming projects on The List™. I have friends that think I’m deranged and a wife who thinks knows that I’m unhealthily fixated. The deeper I get in the work, the further I stray from the reality that I’m 26 and on my second house that is far, far too nice for what I actually deserve. But my motivation for it is not what most people believe it to be.
Hearing my parents compliment choices in paint, how furniture has been rearranged, ideas for future projects leads me to wonder if they are trying to reassure me that things look good already and that I should slow down and be less aggressive. The quizzical looks and polite smiles of friends belie their thoughts that perhaps I’m some sort of snob about my home or that I’m trying to somehow jump economic brackets by throwing monetary weight behind my decorating. All of this couldn’t be more wrong, and it seems as if the more that I explain it the worse I feel.
Beyond my lineage, beyond the fact that I come from a people that take grave pride in their work as a representation of who they are, beyond all this is what I actually do for a living. I often use this as a way to explain my mania, to friends, family and even The Wife™. Sadly, I don’t think anyone understands.
Loosely speaking, part of what I do for a living as a designer and as a person working in the creative industry (though I still struggle to call myself that) is to gain control of all variables in an attempt to communicate a message with color, shape and spacial relationship. I solve problems day in and day out and am continually on the lookout for possible future issues. Analyze, synthesize, create then critique. If something looks off, you change it no matter how small it is, because it might dramatically impact the final product. The details are where consistency (and ultimate successful design) is developed. And while I always restrain from writing about design, the process or even community, it certainly impacts my every day life. Engineers are often ribbed for being Type-A personalities. Teachers often bring their didactic mannerisms home with them. And similarly, your design friends are likely critiquing every small visual thing—not because they hate it, but because they want to understand how to make it better because they’re so smitten with the visual languages.
I’m not sure I’ll ever convince my parents or my wife that my obsession for redoing everything in the house is out of both love and respect, not dissatisfaction. I wish I could turn off the switch between work and home. It would make things much easier (on both the wallet and the mind). But if I can make it better, why shouldn’t I? If someone knew how to fix a leaky faucet—something not entirely important to the working order of a house—wouldn’t they?
It’s frippery. It’s unnecessary. I should merely be happy with owning a nice home. Everyone tells me this on a routine basis. But if I have the time, energy and funds, I’m going to continue working on it. And I hope someday my parents understand. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me for being sick in the head. They should know that already, but for other reasons.
