When I was a teenager I made a goal to someday be perfect. I figured it was in my range of ability — I just had to work hard at it.

I began my training in perfection with my mother’s high school yearbooks. In the mid-20th century seniors could list their pet peeves under their graduation photograph. I made a list of several of the pet peeves of the graduating class of 1954 and vowed to note each and every one of those pet peeves and not do things like “wear red and pink” (easy), “Sing [insert pop song from 1953 here]” (piece of cake), “wear too much makeup” (Ok), and “be a woman driver” (huh? maybe I could just be a good woman driver). I don’t have the list nor the yearbook in front of me, so I’m just guessing at these now.

So, list of pet peeves of high school students from the early 1950’s in hand, I was on the road to perfection.

Then I discovered the advice column in Seventeen magazine. It gave advice on how to be popular — and weren’t perfect people popular? I read it religiously and tried out some of the tips. I’ve already written about the tip about wearing a pendant on my back instead of on my chest. That kind of spoiled the advice columns for me.

The next stage in my quest for perfection (and no, I didn’t manage to avoid all pet peeves) was when I discovered self-actualization. My memory of what I thought self-actualization meant and what I’ve found online differ somewhat, but the idea is the same: to reach one’s potential. Since I was certain perfection was a potential for me, I used this to strive for perfection.

I made a list of behaviors and goals in a journal (called not-surprisingly Dona’s Self-actualization journal — now lost or destroyed) and kept notes on my journey.

When I met my husband-to-be he said that self-actualization was not much different from a cult or Scientology (apologies to any Scientologists who may read this). I believed him and gave it up. I’m not sure he was right — but I think I might have been planning on giving it up anyway. Long time ago — so there is little way of knowing.

Anyway — at some point I realized that I was not going to be perfect. Ever. I think this was about the same time I realized I could never be invisible. Or talk to fairies.

That’s ok. I know some people who are [what I considered to be] perfect. And I don’t like them much.

Whew! Close call.

—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction
Virginia Woolf
A Room of One’s Own (1929)

Because my parents had a girl and a boy, I pretty much always had my own bedroom when I lived at home. My brother and I shared a room for a time - was his crib in my bedroom? I forget. I do remember that his first “big boy” bed was a trundle bed, pushed under my twin bed each day and set up each night. But once the living room was expanded, he was given a corner of that for a bedroom until my father finished the attic room for me. Then Kevin moved into my bedroom and I moved to the attic.

I also had my own room when I moved to my first apartment, and when my roommate moved out, I got the entire apartment, that is until my boyfriend moved in a couple months before we moved to Pittsburgh. Since then and until recently, however, I never had my own space.

I suppose I didn’t know I wanted a space of my own. I don’t recall longing for it until the past decade or so. Perhaps I was fine with just Dean and me - we didn’t fill the house so. And the first few years with the kids - they were so busy, I didn’t have time to seek solitude, nor, I suppose, did I desire it. I was having fun being a mom.

In 1994, when my children were small, in order to fulfill my teaching recertification requirements I took a class called Women in Education. It was mostly about women writers and one of our required readings was Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. We also read pieces from other women authors - one story in particular stands out, but I don’t remember the author or enough about the story to find it again. Sometimes I wonder if it was a nightmare - what could happen if I was not careful.

In the story a woman from sometime in the past - late 1800’s? Early 1900’s? 1950’s? - desires a room of her own. Perhaps she just wants to get away from her demanding children or perhaps she wants to write. Maybe she just wants a place to call her own. Anyway, her husband has the attic of their house refinished and she moves in. She loves this place and hangs out there often. Slowly, however, her children spend time there, they go up and disturb her when she needs peace. Perhaps her husband also visits too often. Eventually she throws herself out the window to her death.

I think I might have obsessed on this story, because a couple of women in the class who were work associates with my best friend at the time, talked to her about their concerns regarding my mood. I guess they thought I was depressed. I suppose I might have been - we’d just moved to a new home in a new state. I was stuck in the house most days with two toddlers. I had no friends in the neighborhood and was not socially comfortable enough to try to make some. My husband and I were not adept at hiring babysitters, so we never went anywhere without the children. I also was dreading going back to work, but thought my husband wanted me to.

I suppose it was this time that I began wanting a place of my own. We had a partially finished attic that was usable in moderate weather. Summers were too hot and winters were too cold, but spring and fall were perfect for spending time there. I made it into an office of sorts for grading papers and writing lesson plans.

Eventually my husband and I made a decision to refinish it and we could both use it for office space. He oversaw the project and by summer of 1998 the room was ready to be made use of which was lucky for me because I’d just quit my job to go back to college for a masters degree. My husband agreed to let me have the attic for two years while I worked on my degree.

Those two years were delightful. I spent most of my waking hours in the attic, sometimes working on the degree, other times traveling the new-to-me expanses of the Internet and World Wide Web. I loved the smell of the attic and the freedom of my solitude. The kids were both in school, so I had few responsibilities during the day.

In 2001 I began working full time. I also gave the attic back to my husband. I did so out of guilt. He’d not had a chance to experience this room that he watched transform from a dusty attic to a sanctuary. I moved all my belongings to the downstairs office, one that was shared with the children, two cats and adjacent to the laundry room and family room. I tried to make it my own, but it never did become mine. The only good thing about being down there was the proximity to the laundry room - we had clean clothes more often.

Since 2001 and my move, I’ve been in a blue mood more often than not. Part of that was probably the office job - it was so different from teaching and I didn’t get my summers off. I went part time and worked at home after a couple of years, but that work was usually done in the living room on my laptop or in the downstairs shared office space. I rarely visited the attic anymore - it made me too sad. The sanctuary was no longer mine, but my husband’s. He rarely used it as well, only for bill-paying and if he worked at home during the day or on weekends. When I complained about not having my own space my husband said that I got the entire house to myself for most of the day during the school year. While there was no arguing with his logic - he was right - I still felt that I needed my own space. What if I needed the solitude when everyone was home?

Earlier this year I purchased a newer router - one that had a range that reached the attic office. I tried to work in the attic a few times, and was able to get work done. I eventually did most of my work in the attic again, but it didn’t feel like mine. My husband insisted I keep it neat for him. (I’m not really a neat person).

Then one day I decided to try the other side of the attic. The side with the television and sofa (we’d recently purchased a second-hand Ikea sofa to replace a ratty old uncomfortable sofabed). I’d set up a desk for my daughter’s never used sewing machine a year ago and it looked out over the tulip poplar growing in our side-yard.

The desk was perfect for my laptop. I began having a feeling of ownership and have spent the last few months making this my space. Yes I share it with Dean’s stuff. Yes there is no door between the two areas. But it is mine. It has worked out well. It is away from the main floor of the house - the kids come home from school and do their own things and I can continue working until supper time. Granted, laundry doesn’t get done as often as before, but its a small price to pay for my sanity. The large window no longer looks inviting for a dive through and my mood is noticeably lighter.I do have to share with the occasional bug though.

The day mom comes back has finally arrived. I was sitting up here working this morning and the R.E.M song, Don’t Go Back to Rockville came on the radio. I had to laugh. Maybe the bedroom has grown accustomed to me and wants me to stick around.

The dishwasher repairman stopped by today and for $65 did nothing but make an appointment to come back. He was a nice guy, great with Dad - even after Dad yelled at me to not pay anything until the repairman came back and finished the job. Interesting - Dad was an appliance repairman for 40 some years. He should understand.

Dad survived a hot dog. I’ve been reluctant to buy him one after his near-death experience with a hamburger. But he likes them and I grew tired of cooking big meals a number of days ago. We’ve been eating leftovers. (well, I’ve been sneaking out…)

Went to the Elgin Public House last night with my sister-in-law, Carol, and then we stopped at the Martini Room. What is it about Elgin that makes it so much more friendly than Bethesda? Not that I go to bars in Bethesda much, but I’ve never been treated so kindly in that town as I was last night.

On Monday, Wednesday and Friday I drive Clare to school as a reward for A’s in academic subjects. I drove her today, then came home, expecting to begin working. Andrew needed a ride to school due to a missed bus. Then he called from school and needed his “odd-day” books.  Three trips up Wilson in about an hour…

Got some work done - not what I’d hoped since they needed old files fixed. Should be able to work on the next batch tomorrow though.

Took Clare (and Anna) to pick up some plants at American Plant Food. She wanted a Moon flower. We bought that plus a few other plants. Hope they thrive.

Talked to our neighbor Sue for a while, then Barry and Theo walked by. Theo came in and played with Clare for a while so Barry could walk his dogs around the block. Theo is so cute and he is in love with Clare.

Robin came over - we talked about books for a while - Barry said my bookshelf reminded him of hers - she agreed. I loaned her Shadow of the Wind.

Book group tonight was sparse and we didn’t discuss the book at all. I’m expecting the same for my night - sometime in June.

Usually the fact that I’m nothing but a tiny insignificant part of the universe doesn’t bother me. I figure I make my mark in some way or the other - and how much does it matter anyway, as long as I live a good life and am happy with my accomplishments?

Lately though, a few things have happened to magnify the fact that I’m not anywhere important to anyone. That if I fell of the Earth today, no one would notice.

Not long ago I attended a neighborhood meeting. I’m semi-active in the neighborhood - in a behind-the-scenes kind of way. I manage the email list, attend most of the meetings, help out at some of the events. I was chair of the welcoming committee, but that went nowhere (mostly my fault). The meeting was mostly about our fight with the local hospital’s plans for major expansion. I walked to the meeting with a neighbor. We talked at the meeting. We sat next to each other at the meeting. We walked home together.

This neighbor was one of the community members who volunteered to go door-to-door to access folks reactions to the expansion. When she came to my door she said things like: The neighborhood had a meeting a couple of weeks ago… and if you were at the meeting… to which I replied: I was at the meeting, we walked there together. We sat next to each other. I guess none of that mattered - she’s important because she’s going door-to-door. I’m not because she’s at my door.

Another thing that makes me fell small (although this completely comes from me - as far as I know) is the fact that my high school graduating class is having a “50th birthday bash” and I received an invitation to a party for our collective birthdays. I don’t live near the town where I went to high school, so replied that I would not be able to make the party. Since I recognized two of the organizers I made the note to them friendly. I also mentioned to one of them that her name came up at a funeral I attended. (she is the godchild the parents of a friend from elsewhere - just coincidence). The reason all this makes me feel insignificant is that I’m pretty sure that when the people who get these responses read my note they will say, “Who the hell is this person? She seems to think I know her.”

The third reason I’m feeling unimportant is based on the show I attended last night - I saw Dan Bern at the Birchmere.

I’ve followed Dan since May 23, 1997 when I heard him interviewed on NPR. I became a huge fan, only listening to Dan Bern for years and attending probably 30 of his shows. There was a brief time where I even hung out in the inner circle, with friends of his. One night, a week before his big Carnegie Hall gig, he even hugged me and kissed the top of my head. And what about that time he posed with Rupert?

People have asked me if Dan knows who I am, if he recognizes me. I usually said no, but in my heart I really thought he did. So, when I approached him after last nights show and said hi, not one ounce of recognition was in his face. Then I blathered on about having followed him for 10 years and thanking him for those ten years. He thanked me, and asked my name. I told him, then left.

On the way home the word insignificant repeated itself over and over to me. I pictured myself as a character in a movie (played by Toni Collette). She’s driving her car in heavy traffic, it is raining and the windshield wipers are screaming INSIGNIFICANT! at her over and over again. She finally gets lost at the airport. (which I did).

This morning I really don’t feel that way. I feel fine and not depressed or low or insignificant at all. But for a few hours last night I did. And it sucked.