My life is a constant change of address form. Where I am is between me and the local post office.
I first moved to Manhattan to go to school at NYU -- gotta love those cramped dorm rooms! I had the time of my life there. Never left the door closed while I was in the room, people could run in and out as they pleased. Fearing my roommate would turn out to be some homicidal psychopath, I maintained some distance from her at first until I realized that she was just like me. (Hi, Diana!) Diana's father worked in the building and made sure we got the nicest furniture (i.e., anything without grafitti, chairs with all four legs, mattresses that fit the frame). We lived like princesses.
After that year, I haven't been able to hold on to one address for more than two years. I am an expert at renting U-Hauls, packing breakables in bubble wrap, lifting with my legs and not my back, climbing four flights of stairs and double parking on narrow two-way streets.
I should've put that on my resume ...
I've finally "settled." Recently I purchased (yes, purchased! I'm in the big league now) a one-bedroom in Brooklyn. Gorgeous place, really. The previous owners kept it immaculate. I'm in the process of doing minor renovations, like pulling up the carpet to expose the hardwood floors and repainting the walls. Oh, and the walls! They require a little special explanation here. They're black! Okay, I exaggerate, they're charcoal. Rather morbid for my naturally sunny tastes.
All this home improvement is making me fantasize about my future house. Only a few weeks into my stay here at the new apartment and I'm already considering the next move. Reminds me of my family during mealtime -- we're already planning the next banquet feast.
Toss aside all ideas the you've compiled on me as the type of woman who would desire a nice country cottage with a white picket fence. Replace her with a hardcore, all-metal and glass furnishings meanie who coolly instructs you not to touch anything the second you enter her (eek!) home. I hate clutter, and more than that, I hate soft cushy things that take permanent imprints of your bottom when you sit down. Hell, I might as well live in a laboratory. All those shiny metal surfaces ought to keep me busy for years.
But of course, my practical side rears its no-fun-to-be-had head and I snap back to reality. Other people will have to come here eventually, and I don't suppose they want to fear dissection by some crazed scientist when they cross the threshold to my door. I buckled, under the immense pressure of what I imagined my mother would say, and bought some very funtional, rounded sofas and tables. The walls now boast a "linen" color and the windows are adorned with the standard mini-blinds and gauzy drapes. Ah, girl's stuff.
My future house, the "settle-down and have kids" house, will I suppose have all the conventional comforts of the ordinary house. (Sigh.) But if I have it my way -- and I WILL -- there will be at least one dungeon-style room for me to retreat into and bask in the glory of icy metal and dangerously sharp glass as my comfortable surroundings.
Until then, I'm keeping a few things boxed up, geared for my next move.
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