In 2009, I finished my masters, moved back to New York City, and scored an adorable and recession-priced studio apartment. It was my first apartment in New York as an adult and I remember thinking to myself “I could live here for a while.” The location was convenient to work and the subway, there were great eats blocks away, and it was pretty spacious (500 sq ft) by New York standards. I bought my first fancypants couch . I decorated it minimally and I loved every square foot of that place. It was my haven.
Murphy’s law. I met Steve and 2 months later we were engaged. He moved in so I wouldn’t have to break my lease (and we reasoned that if we could stand each other in a studio apartment, we could stand each other in general). We bought a hideous and cheap IKEA wardrobe to house his things (I think IKEA makes some great things – this was not one of them). My haven became a temporary abode until my lease was up and we could upgrade to a one bedroom.
And then the next year we moved to Long Island City with the lure and promise of dog adoption (Hi Bea!). And then to a brownstone when our rental building increased our rent the second year to $500 per month. And then to Los Angeles with the promise of space and sunshine.
Murphy’s law. We bought a house . And so for the 5th time in 4 years, I am packing all my stuff up. I am wrapping each wine glass, cleaning out my pantry, and boxing all of my things in the hope that they will end up in the new place in one piece.
I like feeling settled. I like having things organized and in their space. I like pretty boxes, having my hangers match, multi-functional pieces, minimalism, clean lines. My ideal life would look like this
1. hamper bench 2. pendant 3. couch 4. box 5. hangers 6. rug
But it currently looks like this:
This constant upheaval is wearing on me and I’m hoping, really hoping that this is the last move for a long time. But I said that about the last move. And the one before it. And now that I’m married and I have dinnerware for 12 that I’ve lugged from place to place without ever having a dinner party for 12 (a word of advice to soon to be wed folks: register minimally), moving is borderline traumatic.