Descriptive Essay My Private Hideaway
Descriptive Essay - My Private HideawayEveryone has their morning routine, but do we ever really take the time to notice the little things? After stressful days at school and work, I like to lose myself in my own private hideaway. My bedroom is the last thing I see before I fall asleep every night and the first thing I catch sight of when I awaken. There is something special about the seclusion of a bedroom. Of all places, this is the one setting that is completely your own. It exudes independence, personality, and style of the occupant.
A distorted top forty hit blared through my faithful alarm’s tiny speaker. I pounded the snooze bar with the precision of an elephant stepping on a mouse. Warm rays of the blinding sun peeked through my crooked venetian blinds suggesting the start of a new day. I wiped away the grit of a good nights sleep from my eyes, and saw the dim numbers of the clock taunting me. I stretched my heavy arms and legs, nearly reaching the four posts of my queen size bed. As I wearily crawled out of my warm comforter, my cold feet searched for the familiar white fuzzy rug resting atop my bedroom floor. I lethargically rose out of bed, the carpet fibers lightly tickling the pads of my feet. Looking at my bed, I see the sheets and blankets in dire need of straightening. Two pillows rest at opposite ends – covered by cases made of turquoise cloth. This colour forms a pleasant matching contrast with the darker blues that plainly compromise the colouring of the bedspread. At one corner, I see my sheet, a salmon-coloured item that does not seem to match anything at all, struggling to maintain its grip on the mattress. An array of semi-gloss, eggshell, and shades of Atlantic Ocean Blue cover the four walls and their accompanying baseboards with scattered chips of paint. An enlarged black and white photograph of the Eiffel tower hangs above my bed, its extremely large prominence reminds me of my previous travels. Shelves weighed down with scattered memories protrude from the wall adjacent to the door – topped by a number of photographs in pewter frames. One particular photo jumps out at me of Dene, Melissa, and I sitting on a ridge in Banff, Alberta. Snow-capped camel humps rested patiently in the distance. The light breeze whistled; softly caressing our cheeks and leaving our hair disgruntled. The sweet smell of wild flowers and freshly cut grass encapsulated me, and I am reminded of the sheer charm of a place free of pollution and noise.
At one corner, I see my oak dresser. The dresser is tall and quite old, a ‘hand-me-down’ from my sister before she moved away to college. It stands to the left and three feet across from the foot of my bed. The brown wooden finish, tarnished from years of use, is in desperate need to be re-stained. Upon the dresser rests an unused fourteen-inch television set accompanied by a video cassette player, collecting dust. Alongside the dresser sits a stereo, used to fill the void of silence while I do homework or scavenge for clothing. Piles of compact disks lie scattered across the floor, the epitome of disorder. I walk awkwardly across my bedroom floor, wading through the swamp of clothes, and dodging the piles of Cosmopolitan magazines that carpet the floor. I step inside my walk-in closet and immediately the fleeting scent of lavender suffuses me. I sort through my vast array of dresses and skirts once rescued from the clearance racks, begging to be worn, and set them aside for trendier items. A rainbow of tank tops and cardigans are shoveled out of the way to reach the leopard print, terry-cloth robe, recently bathed in fabric softener. I knotted it tightly around my waist like a prestigious coat of armor and selected a snug fitting black skirt to wear along with a copper tank top for the day ahead.
The background scent of thick, burnt, roasted coffee tickles the tip of my nose and fills my sense of smell. My taste buds become aroused as the aroma increases, and I become increasingly distracted by the ideas of what might be in the kitchen. I head down the hall, prepared to battle the morning.
Saturated with interminable memories and aromas, my own private hideaway provides me with a sense of security, a place that will never change without me. Hundreds of things go unnoticed each day like the birds singing in the trees. Maybe we can now try be more conscious to our surroundings and be aware of our day that much more. Everyone should have a place to go to be alone with his or her thoughts. I have a place like this, and I use it to my utmost advantage. When I feel overwhelmed by the stresses of homework and friends, I can always go to my bedroom.