I bought this lamp on 1st Dibs.
After reviewing the pictures, I decided I had to have it. It was delicate and spoke to a part of me that always longed for sophistication, if only on my nightstand.
I imagined the tiny fairy lamp next to the yellow tray where I put my earrings before bed and my book. It would look great next to my book, I told myself.
After offering a lower price than posted and ignoring the obscene shipping costs from Italy, I had a bit of buyer, or bidder’s, remorse. I could get something more practical. I didn’t need this lamp.
The seller responded quickly, and on a rainy Saturday morning, the lamp was mine. I tracked the twinkling pixie light every step from packing until the day it arrived in our mailroom. In a crate. Like wooden sides, nailed together full-on crate.
Holly hell. The kind UPS lady offered to bring it to my door from the mailroom because I couldn’t lift a whole crate. How much packing did my tiny lamp need? It must be incredibly delicate, and it traveled from Italy, after all.
Twenty screws and scissors-acting-like-a-crowbar later, I opened the lid to my new treasure and removed the first glass ball. It was huge, as were the other eighteen glass balls. All of them were softball size, and the lamp’s base was so heavy it took two hands and three tries to heave the thing out of its peanut packing.
Michael came into the kitchen, our counter covered in bubble wrap and giant balls. “Wow, that’s a big lamp.””I should have checked the measurements.”
I put my face in my hands, already exhausted. “This will never work. It’s almost as big as my nightstand. How would I even begin to return this thing?”
“To Italy?” he asked, that annoying casual in his expression. “You’re not. It’s yours now.” He grinned, bit into an apple, and returned to his office.
It turned out my ginormous purchase was also wired for Italy and would need a transformer or a rewire to work in the US. Dejected, I put the lamp together and set it all however many pounds of it on my nightstand.There’s still room for my book.
The lamp is different from what I expected, and I still haven’t found a lighting shop to ask about a rewire. I may never find one. Maybe it will sit inoperable on my nightstand like a gorgeous statue from The Jetsons if The Jetsons were bougie.
Delicate and sophisticated. That’s what I wanted. I suppose I’ve wanted it all my life, and somehow I’m never quite there. I have always been great, sometimes unexpected, and occasionally fun, but never delicate.
Perhaps my lamp and I were destined. We understand one another, and that, while not practical nor helpful when trying to read at night, is still a gift.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Golden Hour.