A Room of My Own

I spend more time in my bedroom than in any other room in my apartment. It has my bed, my desk, my TV, my books, my reading chair and a view of St. John the Divine. It’s where I do my thinking, search my soul, and plan my days. It was worth waiting for.

I never had a room of my own until I was 45. As Virginia Wolf might well have asked, “What took so long?”

From birth to 21, I slept in the kitchen—first in a crib and then on an army cot— in our small three-rooms-in-a-row apartment in a boarding house in Queens managed by my mother. At 13, when my dad died, I moved to the bedroom and shared the double bed with my mother until I got married at 21. My husband and I moved into a two bedroom apartment in Jackson Heights and shared the master bedroom; the smaller bedroom became a TV room. When we had two kids, we moved to a Classic Six in Manhattan; our son had the second bedroom and our daughter had the maid’s room and half bath. When I was 40, we divorced and the master bedroom became my own. I told myself I’d never share a bedroom again.

But never say never. At 50, I remarried. After living in my Manhattan apartment for a while, Richard and I bought a Tudor in Bronxville, with a large master bedroom for us to share, and two roomy other bedrooms—one each for our own uses. That was my first room-of-my-own and I loved it, but some years later, when we decided to move back to the city, apartment space was at a premium. We did find an affordable apartment with three small bedrooms in a row. “One for each us,” we said, “and a room to meet in the middle.” But someone else beat us to it. Other apartments with a similar configuration were beyond our means, so we settled on a spacious two bedroom, with 1.5 bath. I shared the master bedroom with my husband and the smaller bedroom became his office, since he worked at home. I no longer had a room of my own.

Until twenty years later. Now I was 70, and Richard had gone through a series of illnesses–diabetes, cancer, and osteo-arthritis in the knees—that were crippling him and he found it more comfortable to sleep in a recliner than a bed. We turned his office into a bedroom to accommodate his needs—a zero-gravity recliner, his mobility scooter, a walker, a super duper 60” TV, a computer with a screen as big as his TV, and all his many books.

The master bedroom then became mine—with a moderately-sized TV, a small functional laptop, an Ikea desk, and a comfy reading chair in which to read my beloved books. The room is bright and sunny, and its windows look out over city rooftops and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It’s more than just a room to sleep. It’s a room to find myself, to be myself, to remove the social mask that I often must wear everywhere else.

The separate bedroom arrangement has worked well for both of us. But, one might ask: Isn’t sharing a bedroom something all couples ought to do? Doesn’t separate rooms mean that your relationship is in trouble?

Not necessarily. It has given each of us the private space to think freely, to appreciate the precious time we have left, and decide how we’d like to spend that time. It has given us greater freedom to make decisions independently of one another and then come together to share those thoughts. It’s made us more aware of one another’s needs, of how much they can change as one gets older.

The age-old belief is that when couples sleep in the same bed, sex happens more naturally and more frequently. I thought so, too, but now know otherwise. Sleeping apart is occurring more often than one might think. According to the International Housewares Association, a trade organization, 31% of surveyed couples who said they slept apart reported that the arrangement had no negative impact on their relationship; 21% said that their relationship had improved because of it.

Truth be told, most couples do not see separate bedrooms in such a positive light. But the fact is that, today, interior designers are busy reconfiguring homes to transform separate bedrooms into adjoining ones, because more couples—of all ages—are requesting them. Perhaps these couples have found their own secret to domestic bliss: separate rooms where everyone gets a better night’s sleep, undisturbed by different sleep schedules, or a partner’s snoring, or penchant for blanket-stealing, or habit of turning and tossing like a rotisserie chicken. There’s no right or wrong. It’s all about what works best for you.

Which brings me back to Virginia Wolf. In 1929, she wrote that women who write should have a room of their own. I’d amend it to, “All women and men ought to have a room of their own– to write and do whatever else suits them.”