To be completely frank, I really lucked out when it comes to the roommate situation. E and I have known each other forever. Our dad’s went to high school together, we went to college together, and she’s a year older than me so she got to experience living the post-grad lifestyle for long enough before I did so that she could show me a thing or two once I got there.
E has lived in this apartment for a full year longer than I have. When she first moved to the city from the north suburbs, she was living with our friend and her sorority sister, Lindsey. Even though my name wasn’t on the lease, I had spent many drunken evenings here, whether it was crashing on the metal futon by the window or sleeping in Lindsey’s room because she was staying at her boyfriend’s house that night.
When Lindsey got engaged, she decided that it would be best for her to move in with her fiancé, and who better to take her spot than E’s family friend who was itching to move out of his parents’ place? Of course I took it. Sure, it might have been a little bit more expensive than I should have been paying, but it cut out all the apartment hunting and roommate searching that would have come with any move out of your childhood home.
And so here I am. One year, a promotion, two pay raises, four kind-of-dating-but-not-really-ready-to-put-a-label-on-its, a blogging gig, and countless booze filled nights later. Our lease is up, and starting Saturday morning, we’ll be moving into a new apartment in a new neighborhood. One with new floors and a new kitchen, a new front patio and more space. An apartment that we’re both really, really excited about.
As excited as I am about the new place, I’m torn about moving. Getting sappy and nostalgic sucks, and I’m really sorry for that, but this isn’t the sappy and nostalgic that I’m used to. This isn’t the “moving out of the frat house so that you can be in an off campus house senior year” kind of nostalgia. This was my first apartment where I was really on my own. This was the first place that I was able to actually afford on my own; somewhere that I had to take pride in, because if there were any damages, I would be the one paying for it. When I took a girl back home, I got to say that this was my place—and actually mean it.
I’ve always hated “one size fits all” approaches to blogging. “We’ve all been there,” and “I know you know what I mean,” are two phrases that I’ve avoided saying in the entire time that I’ve been here. But with that being said—God fucking damn it—I know you know what I mean when I say that it’s an inherently different feeling to move out of your first ever apartment. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with it. Three years ago, I could never have imagined a living situation where I was totally self sufficient for a full year, and yet here I am. Not only having been on my own, but moving to a new location where I can put myself in a position to start living the lifestyle that I want to live.
Nostalgia can be fun to an extent. Sitting in an empty apartment listening to the playlist you played when you first moved in has an almost twisted appeal to it, like riding roller coasters or going to see The Fault In Our Stars. You know it’s going to fuck you up, but you come out on the other end feeling better having let it all out. And then you leave. You walk out the door, feel the air pressure change because Mother Nature decided it would be a sweet idea to rain on your moving day, get in your car, and prepare to put your nose to the grindstone so that you can celebrate with beer and pizza.
Nobody likes moving. Sure, it’s exciting to live in a new place once you get there, but the actual process fucking blows. Maybe having a nostalgic experience is just part of the catharsis necessary to get through it.
So anyway, have a great weekend, everyone. Take some time to appreciate your living spaces. You never know how long you’ll be there..
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