...
...I bought a condo.
I move in three weeks, and I'm so anxious to be moved that my entire living room and dining room are already packed and I can no longer make it to my kitchen without grievous injury, and or a screaming hissy fit about who was stupid enough to leave a really heavy box of books right there in the middle of the supposed pathway. Even though I'm the only one packing, it does nothing to lessen the pain of stubbing my toes on an hourly basis.
Packing puts me in a melancholy mood, because I keep everything. While going through stacks of papers and old binders I've come across birthday cards from people I'm no longer in touch with, the theatre bill from my first date with my ex-boyfriend in 2003, several postcards from the guy who should have been my boyfriend sent from South America and the spare key to my old car, Lucille.
It's like an archaeological dig through my own life. Some of these artifacts I've tucked away again, and some I tossed out with the garbage. Sort of like what I should have done with the origins of these artifacts to begin with.
Moving can also make a chica feel very vulnerable. Once the furniture is gone it will be plain as day that I don't vacuum the corners. Ever. The fact I have more boxes of books than anything other item makes me look a little unbalanced, not to mention the two boxes in my bedroom that should the contents be inadvertently revealed to either the movers or my parents, will cause me to die. Instantaneously. I will burst into flames, and then fall over dead -- no need to cremate me. And yes, I have two boxes worth. Let's not judge.
I suspect most women have similar items in their bedrooms, and have also spent time lying awake wondering what would happen should a buzzing sound suddenly start emanating from one of the boxes during the move, and whether she might recover with the help of therapy, medication or lobotomy.
I've started shopping for furniture for my new place already, given that the furniture I have in my current place came to me only after one of these two statements:
- If you're sure you don't want it and it doesn't smell - I'll take it off your hands OR
- It's only a good deal if Value Village has some sort of delivery service.
Basically, it's been a while since I've bought any major items for my home. However, I'm having the opposite problem shopping for furniture from when I normally shop for clothes - everything is way too big.
Furniture is way too big. It's massive. A typical couch at the Brick could have easily saved one half of the people who went down with the Titanic - it just needs some oars. I bought a condo, not a sprawling country home with available storage in any one of the four barns dotting the property. I need smaller furniture.
I've found a few pieces I like in very expensive furniture stores with the word "urban" in the title. Despite these stores carrying smaller condo sized sofas, these couches are double the price despite being half the size.
This frustration reminds me of shopping for lingerie. Even though a bra and pantie set may have no clearly discernible material and only a few hooks and straps to demonstrate it should be worn as something other than an eye patch, it's still double the price of lingerie that covers a lot more but is a little less pretty.
My hunt for an affordable condo size sofa reminds me of shopping for lingerie for another reason as well. I have no need for a sofa because I haven't even moved into the damned place yet, nobody would see it if I bought one, and only I would be excited about it. Sadly, those are the same reasons lingerie is an impractical purchase for me right now too.
Even if I choose to be done with the moving, pack my car with my most treasured belongings and set my apartment on fire, I know what's coming with me in my car. A few photographs of family and friends, the art on my walls, my David Sedaris books signed by the man himself, one bottle of real champagne and those postcards from South America. Everything else is just clutter.
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