For the first year we lived in our furnished apartment, we were too busy getting rid of stuff to care about furnishing it properly. The bedbug-infested tiki-inspired bedroom set, for instance, needed to go; so did the broken stereo, the TV that kept trying to electrocute us, the shelves full of broken/rusty/cracked/stained/sticker-encrusted tableware, and the pink polyester bathroom mat that smelled like urine – someone else’s urine – even after being bleached.

            After a while we decided to settle in and buy the boy his own bed. Then we graduated from a mattress on the floor to an Ikea bed. Shortly after this, Cleo was born, and required a crib. We even acquired some knickknacks: I haggled for a beat-up fish-shaped brass oil lamp at the souk; Sweetie invested in some potted plants for the kitchen; a friend of a friend gave us a small marble model of the Taj Mahal; Henry’s stuffed animal collection increased twofold. Even though we are still lacking curtains, and the sofa is beyond hope, our place is beginning to feel homey. The only thing we’re lacking is a carpet.

            I’ve been setting money aside for a carpet for some time now. Every couple of weeks I take my wad of dirhams to the souk or the grocery store and sort through carpets until I lose the feeling in my fingertips. But every time I consider one that I like, I automatically start thinking of that story by Henry James, the one called “The Spoils of Poynton”, where the woman spends her entire life scrimping to pay for exquisite furniture, and then loses everything in a fire. If I spend my savings on a beautiful red Baluchi carpet with birds and octagons, for instance, will I regret it? Will it become the beginning of a mania that will have me purchasing Edwardian chairs with my kids’ college tuition? More practically, will I spill something on it? What if the bedbugs come back? What if it never loses the sheep-y smell? Should I really be buying a carpet?

            On the other hand, we’re living in the Middle East, surrounded by the most beautiful rugs in the world. And nobody likes stepping out of bed onto a cold tile floor every morning. Our white-floors-white-walls combination could use a little color. So while I’m not actually looking at carpets, I think about how nice it would be to have one. But thanks to Henry James, I lose my courage every time I shop. I can buy shoes, canned soup, books, sheets, or newspapers without a qualm, but when it comes to Expensive & Permanent Home Furnishings, I make myself dizzy thinking about Poynton.

            The only solution I can think of at the moment is to use my carpet money to pay for therapy to figure out why I am unable to buy a carpet. 

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