If you happen to be near me at any point in the day, it is quite possible definite that you’ll hear me go “ooooh that’s my aesthetic.”  Now, this proclamation can be about anything from a pattern on a piece of fabric to a flock of birds pecking someone’s eyes out nice lamps in a restaurant.  You’re right to assume that I am a vapid airhead for saying something this ridiculous out loud, but you’re also wrong to assume that I am vapid airhead for saying something this ridiculous out loud.

Imagine this.

You’re ten years in the future.  You’ve just married the man/woman/dog/tree of your dreams, and you two have just bought a house together.  The house is in a wonderful neighborhood, near your place of work and favorite coffee shops, and completely empty so you can have your way with decorating.

There are two avenues to travel down in this scenario:

1. You fill the house with nice things, without really a sense of “togetherness” in the room.  Despite the various nuances of this decor, you decide that nostalgic items take precedence in your decoration.
2. You plan out a beautiful aesthetic for your house, allowing any nostalgia that fit your aesthetic to be displayed.  If something doesn’t fit aesthetic, it goes in the trash (or in the attic if you’re a hoarder).

Which one of these seems better?

Since I can’t hear your answer (because you’re talking to a computer screen by yourself–who’s the crazy one now?), I’ll answer for you:

The correct answer is the second one.

Now you might be saying, “Anthony.  This vase is from my mother’s fifth wedding, which was, arguably, her best wedding.  I can’t throw this out!”  If you are saying this, again, I can’t hear you and stop talking to your computer.  It can’t hear you/doesn’t care what you have to say.

I truly do not care which wedding this vase came from or which baseball series of the world (is that how you say that?) that baseball came from.  It’s like when you get dressed in the morning.  If you plan to look nice on any given day, I’ll bet you $300 (Audience gasps at bold bet) that you won’t shave a 4-inch stripe around the sides of your head.  That would truly throw off everything.  And if it doesn’t throw off everything, you need to reconsider how you leave the house in the morning.

New scenario to prove my correctness:

Michelle Obama visits your home, expecting to find a dirty, disheveled mess.  You, basking in the glory of Michelle’s arms, panic about the state of your home.  HOWEVER, you (smartypants!) have planned ahead, following my instructions in this post to a T.  Michelle is shocked in a good way.  I imagine the scenario to be something like this:

Lights up on INTERIOR your home.  It’s a beautifully-furnished home, with dark, wooden furniture, dark marble counters, and plenty of white cabinetry.  The fixtures are a tasteful off-white with a tinge of turquoise-y/green.

MICHELLE: Hello, I’m Michelle.

(Before we go too much further, I am giving you the benefit of the doubt here in my assumption of you being able to host the Queen–you’re welcome.)

YOU: Hello, how do you do?

MICHELLE: How do you do?

YOU: Welcome to my home.  Please, do come in!

MICHELLE: Thank you.

She walks in.

MICHELLE:  Oh my goodness!  Your aesthetic!  You MUST refer your interior designer to me.  Do you know of Anthony Reale?  I love his work.  He’s an icon, I must admit… (She goes on.)

And then you live happily ever after with Michelle Obama’s approval–not too bad an outcome.

I can’t truly predict the future, but I assume you’ll end up here somehow.  It’ll be great, I promise.  Well, I “promise.”  (My attorney* said I shouldn’t promise things ever.)

Reporting from my bunker meant to ward off finals, I’m Anthony Reale.

*my mother