A Room of Our Own - part one

After thirty years of existence, there still a ton of things I have yet to experience. Seeing Godfather II, bungee jumping, purchasing a hooker, and outrunning the police, are things I have not done. However, just recently, I had crossed off something from that list. Living alone. In all my life, I never lived on my own, by myself. It didn’t even dawn on me until a few weeks ago, and I had already been doing it for the last five months.

“Living alone isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be” cries Billy Joel in the song “Laura” from The Nylon Curtain. He’s correct, to a point. But after living with others for the last 30 years, I have to tell you it’s a nice change of pace in the very least. I moved out of my last place and into my new townhouse this past October. Three beds, three baths, a finished basement, and I had, oh, zero furniture. Truly an empty home. The first two months involved painting, ripping out old carpet, putting in new carpet, and resanding the hardwood floors in the kitchen and dining room. There was no real living going on, just minor construction going on half the time. Then a couple pieces of furniture followed... and a TV. Had to get a TV. And that’s pretty much where I am now after living here in the last six months. I still have no real bed, just a mattress and box spring on the floor. The living room is basic with a couch, big chair , and TV. There’s a dining table, and the kitchen has all the appliances I need. I need pictures to be put up, some shelving, maybe a bookcase. But that’s all in due time where you slowly make the transition from house to home. Trouble is, I tend to want to have that happen all at once. I want to pull a Barbara Eden, fold my arms, blink, and *poof* everything is in place. I have no patience. But, if I can’t have it all at once, right now, then I can go forever without it at all. Strange how that works for me. I was like that with piano lessons. I started slow, learning the first lines, then I’d try to take off without knowing the rest of the piece and fuck it all up. I’d get frustrated that I couldn’t do it without properly learning it. I got needlessly ahead of myself, and because it didn’t come naturally, I got discouraged and lost interest. So for now, screw it, I have a bed to sleep on, so I can deal for a while. The minor details can come later, especially when I get more money.

This living alone stuff is... weird sometimes. First, it’s way too much house for just me. It really is, and it’s embarrassing showing people the house when I give the tour. I enjoy giving the tour, I enjoy the house, but it almost seems silly saying, “Hey, this is all mine!” But it was an investment with money I had come into. It certainly wasn’t purchased using my radio salary. There’s a reason, at the station, we call our paychecks “The Bi-Weekly Insult.” The house is three beds, three baths, a finished basement, with a full bar. All me, no one else. The previous thirty years were shared bedrooms, shared bathrooms, shared this, shared that, and in confined spaces. Confined further with other people present. This is now two thousand square feet and just me. It feels like a cavern.

Part of the problem is what I laid out before of the house into home transition. I think I’m about halfway there. Just a couple months ago, it was still a house. My mark was not placed yet and it didn’t even feel like my place. I still had that renter mentality of worrying about marking up this, putting a hole in that. What about my security deposit? Oh wait... there isn’t one. I can seriously fuck this place up and no one else would care. That thought is liberating and crushing all at the same time. It’s just me here. A lot of freedom. A lot of responsibility. I could be the one who burns the place down. I could be the one who accidentally left the faucet running. Did I leave the door open? I, I, I, I. No fall back of someone else being home to clean up my proverbial and actual messes. No one else to bail me out if I lock myself out. And no one else to help pay the rent. All new experiences. Not bad... just different.

I almost laugh sometimes at the living situations I was in, especially in the dorms. I lived in the dorms for two years at Penn State when I transferred to University Park for my junior year. Four semesters. I had a different roommate each semester. It was not because I was such a prick to live with, but because of... well... let me explain.

(Due to the interest of time, and not putting up an entry for a while, I’ll stop here and finish this next week. To be continued...)