Let’s get straight to the point: I am terrible at decorating my home. There, I said it.
My living space is cozy enough—not too large, not too small—but it hardly resembles anything you might find on a home improvement show, unless it’s one of those “before and after” episodes like on Fixer Upper.
Picture this: The artwork in our family room is always askew. There’s a photo of a baseball player that my child ripped from a magazine, awkwardly placed over a framed family picture. Our dining table’s centerpiece is cluttered with seashells from my half-hearted attempt at seasonal decor, even though we’re already well into October and knee-deep in the official decorative gourd season.
When guests enter, the first thing they often ask is, “What’s with the donkey picture on your wall?” Yes, there’s an actual picture of a donkey taped up there, alongside a hodgepodge of other portraits.
So yes, I’m not good at home decor. And honestly? I don’t care that much. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch; I care a little. I mean, I wish I could channel my inner design guru, but I also wish I had a physique like Jessica Biel’s and abs like Jillian Michaels. It’s just not in the cards for me. Why? Because I have kids and pets, and “this is why we can’t have nice things” has become my personal motto.
Let’s be real: I’m a bit lazy. I lack the motivation to spend hours hunting for perfectly coordinated throw pillows, nor do I have any interest in figuring out if shiplap would even work in my home. What is shiplap, anyway? Apparently, it’s quite the trend.
Even if I had the time and energy to decorate my home like a Pottery Barn showroom, I’m not interested in constantly reminding my kids to keep their feet off a pristine white couch or to remove their Legos from a bowl of fake gourds. I already spend my days reminding them a million times to brush their teeth and to put their dirty clothes in the laundry shoot that is literally right outside their bedroom door.
Honestly, I just can’t muster the energy to stress over whether the hand towels in my guest bathroom stay pristine. For the record, I don’t even have a guest bathroom! I share one with three males, and I’d be thrilled if we could just keep the toilet seat down and the toilet paper replaced.
And let’s talk about HGTV. I know this may sound sacrilegious, but I can’t stand it. It serves as a constant reminder of how inadequate I feel about my decorating skills—and, frankly, about adulting in general. I might start off feeling okay about my humble abode, but within minutes, I’m questioning every choice I’ve made and yearning to rush to Home Depot to tackle DIY projects like fire pits and shabby chic furniture.
Look, I’m not dismissing HGTV or anyone who enjoys home improvement. If spending your Saturday evenings browsing the aisles of Lowe’s or binge-watching Property Brothers is your idea of fun, then more power to you! But even though I might feel a twinge of envy over your beautifully decorated space, I simply can’t bring myself to do it. I’m naturally minimalistic and easily overwhelmed by choices. Every time I try to spruce up one area, the rest of the house just seems to look worse. Where does it all end? In a sea of caulk and complaints about outdated shiplap, that’s where.
So there you have it: I’m not good at decorating. And as I get older, I care even less. My home doesn’t look like a West Elm catalog; it resembles a toy store—specifically, a less-than-stylish one filled with cheap plastic toys. My bedroom set is older than my marriage, and I struggle to differentiate between paint colors like ecru and alabaster.
And yes, I still have no clue what shiplap is.
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In summary, my decorating skills leave much to be desired, but as time goes on, my concern about it has diminished significantly. My home may not be magazine-worthy, but it’s filled with love and laughter, even if it resembles a chaotic toy store more than a designer showroom.