Remember when you were a kid? You and your girlfriends wanted a private place to meet – to dream, to giggle and to tell secrets? So, you'd build a tree fort in the woods or drape a sheet over a clothesline. Most important, you'd post a sign that read, "No boys allowed." Flash forward thirty-something years, where in my current home, my husband Russell has just created his own private space. There is no sign that reads, "No girls allowed," but it is implied.

It all began innocently enough when Russell announced he wanted "a room of his own." I was all for it from the beginning – heck, I even encouraged the idea. Since my office is directly next to our great room, I would often hear the TV or conversations if Katie and her friends were here – a big distraction. I would end up shutting my office door, only to feel claustrophobic, even "left out." But the room Russell settled on – the music room – is farther away. He said this would be his "manly man room."

Next, he bought a TV, DVD and VCR. Other changes ensued. We moved out the two Queen Anne chairs to the great room (which instantly became my "girly girl room"). The new ensemble – two chairs and our contemporary red sofa and oversized matching chair – blended well with the overall style of our home, which is quite eclectic. (That's a fancy way of saying nothing matches.) This same eclectic style began evolving in Russell's new room – the focal point being a Duncan Phyfe sofa, upholstered in a burgundy stripe-on-stripe silk-like pattern. (I would find out later that Russell forbid anything else near that formal or frou-frou, but accepted the sofa because it was a family heirloom.) The piano also remained in the room because that too was cherished – Katie plays it when she comes home from college.

From the very beginning, Russell announced "No girly girl stuff in here – only manly man stuff." (Whatever that means.) As usual, I pretty much ignored him. At some point, we moved two wicker chairs and a swivel rocker into the room. But none of the material matched the sofa. That's when I started shopping for new fabric.

When Russell came home that night, he said, "Oh no! Not that again." "What?" I asked. He glared at the couple of one-hundred-pound-bolts of fabric, draped across the chairs – then said he didn't even like the patterns. Why was I not surprised? He snubbed the regal gold/purple/red paisley, calling it "feminine." Trying a totally different approach, I asked him what he thought of the green/gold/bronze monkeys, elephants, and lions. But I couldn't understand what he was saying through his evil monster-like laugh; though I think he mentioned the word, "zoo."

Later, I tried a more subdued pattern – a tiny-checked, gold, nubby pattern. He muttered that this choice was a little bit better, but only a little bit. Next, I showed him a pale celery-green linen with huge banana leaves, sporting a splash of burgundy. He got downright arrogant, saying, "No flowers in my room!" I reminded him that banana plants don't have flowers. Honestly!

We were slowly making progress – so I decided it was time to accessorize. We'd start by hanging pictures on the walls. He went nuts. This silly man refused to let me hang two famous Anne Worsham Richardson prints of redheaded woodpeckers – one perched on a magnolia, the other on a snow-covered branch – bringing up the "no flowers" rule again. To add insult to injury, he said the prints didn't go with his theme. His theme? (By the way, I am still waiting to find out what his "theme" is.) Undaunted, I snuck in a colorful Matisse print of a woman playing a guitar. He had a fit! He wouldn't explain why, but I suspect he considered it "girl" artwork – even though I tried pointing out the nice banana-like leaves (by now, he was warming up to that design) in the background. He just shook his head, no.

After that, Russell quite literally took matters in his own hands. He hurled the banana-leaf fabric bolt to a corner, sighed in exasperation, and pointed to the unmatched chair. "Sit down," he said to me. I knew this was serious. He explained that he didn't want anything in his room with "feathers, fur, boas, beads, crystals, silk, chintz or brocade" – okay he didn't say brocade – but I knew what he meant. Then he added, "And no plants!" I challenged this final censorship, but his reply was that plants obstruct his view. (Do not!) And, he said, they have to be watered. (As if he would be the one!)

So here we are now, months after designating and decorating his new room and nothing has been re-upholstered. Heck, he still hasn't told me what his "theme" is. Still, all in all, I guess I should feel blessed that he allowed me to hang Kelly's bridal portrait, Katie's high school graduation picture, and my recent photo on a magazine cover that my father framed – all women – in his "manly man room." Oh, he did add a favorite photo to the collection: The one of him and Arnold Palmer playing golf in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, August of 1996 – his treasured keepsake. And, to his credit, he even allowed me to hang a huge whimsical Christmas print by Ann Hughes Johnson, a family friend.

The room is slowly coming together. In fact, I recently overheard Russell tell a friend that his room is decorated with the greatest people in the world: His wife, his daughters, Arnold Palmer and Santa Claus. At least he has a sense of humor.

All of this "his room/her room" has put things in perspective. True, I now have my own room, complete with comfy furniture, a TV and stereo, and all my "frou frou." I have my own space. He has his own space. But something is missing: It's the coziness of being together. You see, now I realize it's not what is in the room – it's who is in the room that counts. Often these days, I end up in his room, reading, watching TV, or talking on the phone (where I promptly get hushed). Sometimes I even snuggle up to him. I guess it's true: Absence really does make the heart grow fonder. That, and his TV has a much clearer screen – but don't tell him I said so. He just might send me back to the "girly girl room."


[This story first appeared in "Sasee," a magazine published in Myrtle Beach, SC.]

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