My first decorating memory dates back about 20 years or so (the dates are hazy, but the experience is crystal clear.) After some pleading, my mom had granted me the opportunity to redesign my bedroom. I took the job very seriously, sweating over picking just the right shade of bubblegum pink (a risk for this non-pink lover), but it felt right at the time. Weeks of studying the Montgomery Ward catalog resulted in the eventual selection of an oh-so-sophisticated rosebud-printed bed-in-a-bag for my daybed (that was placed on layaway for what felt like an eternity to a pre-teen). Rose-appointed accoutrements were selected to accessorize and style, and a rosevine stencil was laboriously painted along the ceiling line of my bedroom and on the doors of a wall-length shelving unit my great uncle had built me years prior. The result was my childhood masterpiece—an accomplishment that would mold so much of my future without even knowing it.
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