My Desk

When I was 11, I asked my parents for a desk. I was graduating elementary school and felt I needed some place to do my school work. 2 years later, an antique roll top desk became a part of my world. Most 13 year-olds don't have major furniture. I did. I love it-it was almost big enough for me to lay on top of and I had no idea a desk like this existed.

Several years later, I graduated college and my parents no longer wanted custody of my desk. It's 50 inches wide, 50 inches high and 34 inches deep. It's huge. My sisters needed the space. So I moved the desk to DC, moved it again when I moved to a new neighborhood, then it came back to NY, then to Astoria and finally landed in it's current home. I have squished it into a galley like bedroom in a basement apartment, watched as two strong people huffed it up to my 3rd floor apartment, and felt a growing sense of guilt as I continued to ask my dad to help me take it apart and schlep it to my new home. Well, the only help I provide is with the draws. I am dangerous when it comes to the real heavy parts.

Now that I'm moving to LA, I've decided it's time to let my desk go-despite the love in my heart. It has become an albatross around my neck, making it incredibly clear that I do not have a lifestyle that supports an antique roll top desk. I'm a mover. My desk needs a home with it's own room. I hope who ever gets it next loves it as much as I do and gives me enough money to be a substantial part of a down payment on a new car. [The Honda is going, too. I just see that as a chance to upgrade to power windows rather than loosing a part of my history.]