Every time I move into a new apartment,
I measure things in firsts.
The first time I take a shower in the
new place.
The first time I use the microwave. The first time I run the dishwasher
(err...any day now).
Wait, let back up. MY ROOMMATE AND I
MOVED INTO A NEW PLACE!! AHHHH EFFING FINALLY!!!
Which, funnily enough, is simply
upstairs from our old basement apartment.
You may remember (here and here), I had a terrible time
living in the basement thanks to an effing Clydesdale who lived above me.
In the midst of my apartment search,
clomp b*itch announced she was moving out and my roommate and I jumped on it.
Now, WE’RE the clompers!!!
Well, we’re in the clomping position.
We don’t clomp.
(Those basement dwellers have NO IDEA how lucky they are.)
But, back to firsts.
I don’t know if other people think
about these things or if I’m alone in these “milestones.”
“I haven’t cried in this apartment yet,” I pointed out to my roommate the
first day we moved in, which stood true for the first two weeks.
So, I guess I can check that “first”
off the list.
But there are other less pathetic firsts.
The first time I use the oven. The
first time I turn on the air conditioning.
The first time I call a cab to
pick me up from the new address.
The first time someone who doesn't live there sleeps over. Wink.
Two days ago was the first time I went
grocery shopping in my new apartment which I understand is ridiculous since
I’ve been living there for over half the month.
Speaking of lasts, I’ve also been
thinking about the last time I did things in the basement apartment. (It’s not
nostalgia. It’s neurosis.)
The LAST time I took a shower there. The LAST meal I ate there. The last time I flipped the bird
at the ceiling/clomper.
The LAST person who spent the night who
didn’t live there. (Uh, kidding mom. That...never...happened).
And THEN, because I’m a classic overthinker, I began comparing my
life from when I moved into the basement to when I moved out of the basement.
A year-and-a-half span.
Thank God that pretty much everything
in my life is different, and better, from when I moved into the burrow hole.
When I first moved into that basement apartment,
I had just moved back home to New Orleans from Charleston, SC, and I hated it.
I really, really hated it. Massive depression.
(I know, right?? I did not blog about
this. I simply burdened my friends with my misery.)
I had a job that didn’t fit, a
boyfriend that didn’t fit even more and I missed Charleston so much it hurt.
And the clomper upstairs was stomping
all over my happiness.
But now I have a life, a terribly fun
one, great friends and a job that's rewarding and pays well.
I don’t cry every Sunday night anymore
(my roommate LOVES me) and I’ve found people who make me laugh and make me feel
good about myself.
Now, I don’t mean to get all philosophical and shiz unless I’m drunk, but
it’s totally fitting that I’ve moved "up"
to a better place all-around.
MY HAPPINESS
SHINES LIKE THE WOOD FLOORS!
MY DREAMS
ARE AS HIGH AS THE 12-FOOT CEILINGS!
I have appropriately banished my sad,
former self to the basement, buried beneath the non-sound barrier ceiling and
obnoxious smoke detector that went off every time I made stir-fry.
Now, I spend my days looking forward
for more "first" things.
The first day of summer in the new
place. The first time someone picks me up for a date.
The first time I have more than three
people over and not feel claustrophobic.
Do you know someone who’s 6’5???
Invite them over!!!
I’ll open a bottle of vodka...one
my first housewarming gifts.
-Jenny
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