The Next Home Awaits

As I gradually pack up my small number of belongings (actually, not quite as small as I had anticipated—how can one accumulate so much stuff in a studio apartment?), I’m trying to hone my perceptions of this home before I move out next week. I am reminded of the hermit crab I bought my brother for his birthday when we were kids. The crab was so attached to his shell that he refused to move into the bigger one we provided him, and eventually he died. I’m realizing that I’ve been a little too much of a hermit in this place, a bit stifled as well, and it’s time to move on.

I definitely have mixed feelings about this shell that I’m about to shed. I’ve experienced the gamut of human emotions in this place, particularly during last summer and fall. In fact, let’s be frank, I’ve experienced a lot of crap in this apartment, alone, by myself, staring heartbreak dead in the face, and trying to navigate my way around it. This apartment has been my haven from the world, a place where I have gone to cry, to write, to eat, to shower, to sleep, to host friends and family, to laugh on the phone for hours.

This home is an extension of so many facets of me. Bits of myself echo back everywhere I look. The green walls, scratches on the wood floor from my move-in day, nail holes anchoring my favorite pieces of art, dirt on the kitchen floor—that’s all mine, and it all fits together just so. And, in many ways this apartment is a symbol of my stubbornness and independence.

As much as I identify with this place, however, memories fade. In a couple of years, I won’t remember the details anymore. So, here I go again, documenting the moment, so that, like the rest of my Chicago experience, I can come back to this very place in future years…

The hallways of my building have a rich floral carpet disguising an uneven floor, and motion-sensing air fresheners release a sweet floral scent when you walk by. A giant mirror greets you as you step off the elevator at each floor. They still use those vintage gold trash cans with the ash trays on top, just off the elevator, even though no one is allowed to smoke in the hallways. Oh, and one of the two elevators likes to either conk out altogether, or randomly stop on the fifth floor, even when you don’t want it to.

The building lobby has dark wood paneling, a fireplace, and a portrait of Shakespeare hanging on the wall. If you walk to the back, toward the laundry room, it usually smells like trash, because the trash chute (oh how I will miss the convenience of the trash chute) deposits its contents somewhere around there, and the dumpsters are right out back.

My place (many floors above the stinky dumpsters) has what I like to call a hallway when you first walk in. It’s about 24 square feet of space with a coat closet to the right, and the bathroom to the left before you step into the living/bedroom, which is painted with the celery color I spent an hour debating over at Home Depot. The kitchen is painted a contrasting beige, and I have a large serving dish displayed above the cupboards that ties the colors together perfectly. There’s a fabulous full-length mirror built into my clothes closet, but that closet isn’t big enough for all my clothes, let alone my shoes.

The bathroom has those cute little white hexagon tiles all over the floor. The vanity has three mirrored doors I can position to see the back of my hair as I fix it. The towel bars, soap holders, and radiator in the bathroom are all painted black, and it sometimes chips off when I clean. The sinks are constantly getting clogged up, and I once had some kind of black tar ooze up into my kitchen sink from, apparently, the apartment next door, one morning when I went to get a glass of water (yea, that was kind of gross).

My kitchen is actually quite sizeable, and set off from the rest of the apartment. It has nice oak cabinets, on top of which stand a row of empty wine bottles that I will soon recycle.

I will never forget the evening view outside my window, of high rises lit up against the nighttime Chicago sky, nor the late-night, open-window saxophone strains.

Yet, as much affection as I have for this place (my fellow Cancerians can empathize with me here--home is where the heart is), I am so excited about the move. This is actually the perfect time for me to begin a new Chicago chapter. Many wonderful new beginnings started this week (writing-related), completely unexpectedly, and almost immediately after I was able to put events from the past to rest. My intuition is sending me all the right vibes. It's so energizing.

So, as the move date inches closer, I wait eagerly to get my hands on the new place, learn its quirks, find its secrets. I know that it won’t take long before the new walls reverberate with Emily, too.