I think that’s the unofficial name of the apartment. When the landlord told me about it, he said it was small. So I was prepared for small. He gave me the keys, and after escaping a homeless man almost running me down because he was being chased by people he stole from, I made it to the building. I walked in and the first thing I thought was, this IS small and this isn’t a one bedroom, it’s a studio. After opening a few doors, I found the bedroom, which was larger than the living room (and which I now constantly consider turning into the living room so I can fit a couch or something in here). Anyway, the landlord was right, it was small. It was so small, but it’d finally be alone and I could stop my futile search for a roommate who would not only apply with the landlord to be my roommate but who would also show up and sign the lease (and not call and bail at the last minute like the others). I learned this is much harder than I anticipated – in spite of having an awesome apartment with balcony and an amazing view and free parking. I mean, I still cannot believe I couldn’t get someone in there.
Anyway, another flaky potential roommate and the threat of only having one day to decide if I want the apartment, lead to lots of tears and me signing the lease on the new place. I’d get the keys on Monday. That Friday I had drinks and a packing party with Mo, which meant that we got drunk and did not pack. Saturday I went to a bartending class and actually started packing. Sunday my mom came down and Stacey came over, so we actually did pack. On Monday, I got the keys and my Mom and Chris helped me move many, many boxes over. Upon entering the apartment, it seemed even smaller than I remember, I start calling it Teeny Tiny.
On one of our numerous trips between my old apartment and new apartment, my old super asked where I was moving. Oh I’m moving into 565. ”Oh you’re in the small apartment?” My mom laughed, I cried. And so it continued.
My new super sees me and asks which apartment I’m moving into, the small one? My mom laughs some more, I cry again. Damn, does everyone know that I’m moving into the smallest apartment in the world? Weak.
But it’s yours! Everyone’s response is “but it’s yours.” And I know that that should be enough. And that in spite of a kitchen the size of my dresser, I should be happy because it’s mine and because I have been going on and on about how I didn’t want another roommate and wanted to live on my own again. But this is not what I wanted and these are not the terms I wanted it on. I’m moving because no one wanted to live with me and I’m moving into an overpriced shoe box.
But it’s mine. And two weeks of funky attitude later, the place is growing on me. There are quirks I’m going to need to work with (the fire alarm goes off any time the stove is set over 350) and sacrifices to be made (only a tomato, a pepper and my basil made the cut from the awesome garden I had). I’m viewing furniture placement as a challenge a la design star. And I’m finally being forced to purge the obscene amounts of paper I have in here. Pretty early on I recognized that living in the apartment would be a really large test in being happy with what you have. I also recognized I was utterly failing in that regard and that was frustrating. Having what you want and still being unhappy is the worst and I didn’t want to be one of those people always searching for more when I knew I already had enough. Slowly but surely I am growing to love this pace and am excited about it’s potential. And in the end, I know I’ll look back at this whole experience and have a hearty laugh.