.stay a while.
i started to unpack my new apartment today. i mean, really unpack ALL of the boxes. take out and arrange my things that are decorative and not useful. this is a big deal for me. i have moved seven times since i moved to portland three and a half years ago. in 2006, i lived in four different apartments. i'm totally serious. i have learned, from all of this moving, not to unpack all of my belongings. i unpack the pots and pans, the plates, the sweaters if it is winter, the shorts if it is summer. but the vases, the little madonna figurines and antique perfume bottles, the old picture frames, these are best left tucked away in newspaper and tissues, waiting for the next move.
but this new apartment, i'm telling you, it's beautiful. and it's all mine. it's big, with multiple rooms. i could have guests and still maintain privacy. it has a bathtub and hardwood floors. i want to stay here for a while. staying somewhere for a year would be a record for me, but i'd like to stay for more. i'm sick of moving, of packing and unpacking, of taking things to the goodwill and of paying security deposits. it takes all of my energy for weeks at a time. i mean, there's the searching, the looking at places, the deciding, the giving notice, the packing, the rallying friends and trucks, and then the big day, the move. it's an ordeal, exhausting and stressful. it's the reason i didn't pull it together to buy or make christmas presents this year and why i dropped out of the knitting class i paid for last winter.
i'm embarrassed to say, considering the inconvenience moving so many times has caused me and all of my friends, that i don't think it's an accident that i've moved so much. i don't think it's a series of unfortunate coincidences that have sparked three moves in one year. i think it's me. i think it's because i've been bored, if i had to pin it on one thing. i think i'm bored of myself and i don't know what to do, and then i start to pick and dwell on the loud neighbors or the lack of ventilation, the shower pressure is all wrong and the laundry just went up twenty five cents a load. it's dirty and i'll never get all those dust bunnies. i need a fresh start, a clean slate, to start over with something new. and when i'm in the heat of it, it's a thrill: stalking craigslist, touring apartments, shopping for new neighborhoods and bathrooms and lives. i think it's made me feel, in the past, like i wasn't just moving, but like i was moving forward. and i think i got hooked on that feeling.
my dad guessed this about me. i told him about my last move triumphantly like i'd accomplished an impressive feat, finding and relocating to my own apartment. and he was happy for me, but he said, "next time you get bored, maybe you can get a haircut or something." we don't talk much, my dad and i. much more than when i was living his house, but not enough that he really knows how i've struggled with my own restlessness and yearn for some personal progress and accomplishment. my ivy league friends have masters degrees, are running craft breweries, have already finished terms in the peace corps, are learning to deliver babies, are pursuing their dreams. i am trying desperately to figure out exactly, or hell, i would settle for a vague idea of what my dreams are. or rather, i've been treading water, manufacturing elaborate distractions for myself, wrapping breakables in tissues and borrowing moving vans.
but that's done. seven times is the charm. this apartment is my home, and it's going to be for years. plural. i'm not just unpacking my boxes, i'm breaking them down, flattening them, and slicing through the neat seams of packing tape. even though this makes my breath tight, and i raise my voice in my head: "you're making this so much harder for when you move again." but i'm not living in an apartment full of boxes. i'm not worried about moving again, i'm worried about staying. and when i get bored, which i will, it will be with me, not with the neighbors' parties or neighborhood bars. and i WILL get a new haircut. i will take a class, run a marathon. i will indulge any other impulse, and i will drag myself to therapy, to a singles bar, to the gre's. because moving forward is not achieved through moving apartments. it's time for me to start making some actual progress, and in order to do that i need to stay put.
but this new apartment, i'm telling you, it's beautiful. and it's all mine. it's big, with multiple rooms. i could have guests and still maintain privacy. it has a bathtub and hardwood floors. i want to stay here for a while. staying somewhere for a year would be a record for me, but i'd like to stay for more. i'm sick of moving, of packing and unpacking, of taking things to the goodwill and of paying security deposits. it takes all of my energy for weeks at a time. i mean, there's the searching, the looking at places, the deciding, the giving notice, the packing, the rallying friends and trucks, and then the big day, the move. it's an ordeal, exhausting and stressful. it's the reason i didn't pull it together to buy or make christmas presents this year and why i dropped out of the knitting class i paid for last winter.
i'm embarrassed to say, considering the inconvenience moving so many times has caused me and all of my friends, that i don't think it's an accident that i've moved so much. i don't think it's a series of unfortunate coincidences that have sparked three moves in one year. i think it's me. i think it's because i've been bored, if i had to pin it on one thing. i think i'm bored of myself and i don't know what to do, and then i start to pick and dwell on the loud neighbors or the lack of ventilation, the shower pressure is all wrong and the laundry just went up twenty five cents a load. it's dirty and i'll never get all those dust bunnies. i need a fresh start, a clean slate, to start over with something new. and when i'm in the heat of it, it's a thrill: stalking craigslist, touring apartments, shopping for new neighborhoods and bathrooms and lives. i think it's made me feel, in the past, like i wasn't just moving, but like i was moving forward. and i think i got hooked on that feeling.
my dad guessed this about me. i told him about my last move triumphantly like i'd accomplished an impressive feat, finding and relocating to my own apartment. and he was happy for me, but he said, "next time you get bored, maybe you can get a haircut or something." we don't talk much, my dad and i. much more than when i was living his house, but not enough that he really knows how i've struggled with my own restlessness and yearn for some personal progress and accomplishment. my ivy league friends have masters degrees, are running craft breweries, have already finished terms in the peace corps, are learning to deliver babies, are pursuing their dreams. i am trying desperately to figure out exactly, or hell, i would settle for a vague idea of what my dreams are. or rather, i've been treading water, manufacturing elaborate distractions for myself, wrapping breakables in tissues and borrowing moving vans.
but that's done. seven times is the charm. this apartment is my home, and it's going to be for years. plural. i'm not just unpacking my boxes, i'm breaking them down, flattening them, and slicing through the neat seams of packing tape. even though this makes my breath tight, and i raise my voice in my head: "you're making this so much harder for when you move again." but i'm not living in an apartment full of boxes. i'm not worried about moving again, i'm worried about staying. and when i get bored, which i will, it will be with me, not with the neighbors' parties or neighborhood bars. and i WILL get a new haircut. i will take a class, run a marathon. i will indulge any other impulse, and i will drag myself to therapy, to a singles bar, to the gre's. because moving forward is not achieved through moving apartments. it's time for me to start making some actual progress, and in order to do that i need to stay put.
posted by .i'll never tell. at 2:45 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home