After twenty-six lovely days spent on an air-mattress (albeit, a lovely one, I would highly recommed a pillow-top Aerobed
should you, say, get in a fight w/your beloved and find yourself
relegated to the living room), I again returned to my bed. OH, how I
could wax poetic about my lovely, comfy, fabulous bed…but again, will
save that for another time as well. As the movers spent days (ok,
hours) bringing in all of my previously-scaled-down possessions only to
find that the ‘scaling down’ should also have been scaled down, I
nearly wept with glee. "Look! There’s my couch! And my dresser! And my
ladder, oh, I love you ladder." After all, it is *MY* ladder, and again
seeing all that I had left behind in Atlanta returned to me safe and
(somewhat) unbreakably sound, it was a delightful occurrence. And after the movers de-taped and de-blanketed my things, I stood in the 2′ x 2′ space that was left unadorned and thought – "aah, home."
Then the reality began. The menagerie was all-too excited to
explore…after all, there was much tape to be chewed on and things to
smell and couches to scratch and get all hairy, their specialty. Lila,
however, was quite disconcerted; her formerly vast expansive (read:
completely empty save for an Aerobed)
apartment, perfect for much toy-chasing and bone-chewing, was now
maligned by the plight of the boxes (also, the name of my future movie
re: moving should I ever make one.) So, picture this if you will:
Feline menagerie in heightened level of curious excitement squeezing
into spaces that were designed for rats, not cats, while Lila stood
giving me her best look of indignation, barking her irritation with jubilance,
and sighing just as loud as she could to exhibit her frustration with
her thoughtless owner, Aubrey of Too Many Material Possessions.
Which, sadly, is the case. I really, truly believed I had done a
sufficient job downsizing; I gave away HALF OF MY CLOTHES, after all,
including formal dresses. Duvet covers, my other oft-purchased
collectible, also found themselves on the "cut" list, and as for
furniture? Gone. I kept only the basics and the good stuff. Then why is
it, after all the cathartic house-cleaning and de-cluttering,
that my cute little place is a booby-trap laden maze of boxes and
crates and Things That Just Won’t Fit (the technical term for
‘everything I own.’)?
I suppose it’s an exercise in growing up. Converse to the "get older,
settle down, buy a house in the suburbs" (read: Accumulate) mentality
that so pervades our society, I metaphorically said "the hell with it."
Leaving a three-bedroom home for a three-room apartment (yet paying the
same, minus any equity, natch) is something I had said I wouldn’t do –
after all, I had come so far! Grown up so fast! Owned a home when I was
24, look at me, world, I’ve about made it.
But then I realized, perhaps "making it" wasn’t what I was wanting. What’s a 3-bedroom home for one person (and albeit a Grande
Menagerie)? Why do I need all this space – to entertain? Yes, that’s
lovely, but at the end of the day, my home is where I make it, and
despite the never-ending box-opening, the constant Russian Matryoshka nesting dolls-esque condensing, I know that when I walk into my house this evening, I’ll again think, "aah, home."