As far as I remember, I told six or seven people about The Desk.
It was labeled a “mid-century modern secretary desk,” but I’m confident it wasn’t vintage. It had a fold-down writing surface, not a roll-top cover. It was almost trapezoidal – a thick, squatty hutch – and freestanding, not a wall-mounted “floating” desk. There were two distinct features that I loved most. It was made of mixed woods (or made to look like mixed woods) in a patchwork pattern. That detail was emphasized by the cubbies. The top of The Desk had lots of tiny square cubbies, like a postal sorting shelf, and when you pulled down the writing surface, the inside had identical drawers, like an apothecary cabinet.
I tried to draw a picture. It looked a little like this:
I didn’t own this desk. I never saw it in person. But when I moved into my first-ever solo apartment, in 2015, I almost bought this desk online. I’m not sure if I found it myself, during my endless online browsing, or if someone sent it to me. I think I discovered it myself, because it’s not in any of my messages.
I’ve checked my old emails (including my student email from college), social media DMs, archived texts. Over the years, I searched Facebook Messenger for “secretary,” “desk,” “midcentury,” “mid-century,” “furniture shopping,” and “should I buy.” I skimmed through old exchanges with now-blocked contacts. I’ve spent every ounce of self-control to prevent a willing tumble down l'esprit de l'escalier: I can’t waste time re-negotiating the imaginary endings of real relationships. I have to find The Desk.
I haven’t found The Desk. That’s saying something, because I’m A Finder. I get it from my mom. Do you miss a particular jacket from 7th grade? Did you once own a Laura Ashley dress with a floral pattern that was slightly different from the disappointing almosts you’ve ordered from eBay? Are you trying to track down a weird bootleg VHS tape of a Canadian kids’ show?
Ask my mom, and if she’s busy, ask me. At my first magazine job, one of the fashion editors lamented the thrifty habits of her past. She was remembering a limited-run pair of designer earrings. They’d been released a decade before, she said, and she’d owned a few pairs of knockoffs since, but she always wished she could find the real deal. By lunchtime, I had emailed her an eBay link. They were available in two colorways, with a certificate of authenticity, and 20 percent off the 2006 MSRP. If you just missed something in life, let me know. I can probably give you another chance.
Unless you’re looking for The Desk.
After a solid seven years, I still can’t find it, and yet I’m unwilling to stop searching. Or maybe I’m truly unable: I opened this document to start writing 20 minutes ago, and I’ve already been distracted by the search six times. Maybe I should try “mid-century + writing desk + cubbies,” I think. Or What if it was on Wayfair but I misremembered? which sent me searching my Facebook Messenger history for Wayfair links. I relived my two best friends’ relationship and location histories through a string of “which do you like better?” sofa photos. But no desk! No dice.
Desk-Related Messages I’ve Sent That Are Not About THE Desk
“There are four more pairs of shoes in my desk at work”
“Ask the ladies at the front desk – they’ll point you my way!”
“I have a protein smoothie AND a coffee AND ice water at my
desk rn and I'm STILL THIRSTY!!!”
“GIRL YESS I AM CRYING AT MY DESK I AM SO PROUD OF YOU!!!!”
“I did that thing again trying to find the specific secretary desk I almost bought in 2015 and didn’t, and so I had stayed up til 2 am searching every message for the word ‘desk’ lol”
There were many good reasons I didn’t buy The Desk. My studio apartment was one. The price of The Desk was another; I can’t remember exactly but I think it was around $350 or $400. None of the furniture in my college apartment cost anything close to that much except my sofa bad, which played a dual role, and which my mother purchased for me as a gift.
My mother confirmed what I knew then: The Desk was not a wise investment. Before I moved off-campus, I lived in the dorms, where I was provided with a spacious writing desk. I used it as a vanity. A $400 desk was as much as my rent. But even though I remember this discussion with my mother, remember my friends concurring with her point and telling me not to buy it, I can find no textual evidence that I ever discussed The Desk.
Now, I’m incapable of thinking about The Desk without searching for The Desk. When my mind wanders in the direction of The Desk, I steer it back, or I lose hours. Once I scanned my hand-drawn version into Google for a reverse image search. It returned line-drawing clip art –furniture and houses – nothing close to what I wanted.
I’m not certain I’d want The Desk if I were to find it today. Would I use it? Right now, there’s a desk in my apartment, a hulking bureau that belongs to my landlady. I use it to store my notebooks, greeting cards, spare pens, collage supplies, and a hammer. My typewriter is set up on the dining table. If I’m writing in a notebook or on my laptop, I sit folded in my reading chair. The only desk I use is my $5 lap desk, in bed, for food.
When I left college and moved to New York I sold almost all my furniture, so it’s a good thing I didn’t buy The Desk in 2015. Even if I brought it with me, the fold-down writing surface would’ve come unhinged, or a drawer would’ve knocked loose. I’d find an excuse not to use it.
It’s not too late, though! If I find it now, I could change my entire life to suit The Desk. I’d build new habits. Establish a new writing practice. I’d make little labels for the cubbies, and I wouldn’t forget to respond to snail mail for months on end. I would never eat there. When I moved, I would only buy furniture in those three shades of oak wood, carry this story of my impeccable self through the whole room. Sometimes, I see her so clearly, the version of me who owns that desk and a file of printed webpages, indexed as Potential Home Furnishings, 2015 (Living Room).
I fixate on The Desk and ignore the possibility that it’s not about The Desk. I refuse to admit that something I once wanted is no longer an option. The version of myself who owns this desk is alive, somewhere. I can still be her. There is no limit to the countless futures available to me, not yet. If I am patient and disciplined, I will be the one to decide if The Desk is worth whatever a Facebook Marketplace salesperson wants me to pay. This choice has not been taken from me.
Maybe it was Pottery Barn.
oh no I'm down a rabbit hole filled with desks.
Is it this:
https://hedgeapple.com/catalog/nolan-secretary-drop-leaf-desk_946701/?color=Burnished+Walnut