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.
It was the first time I’ve filled the new fridge with my staple case of diet coke and string cheese! Won’t be the last.
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.