Refurbishing my Life
REFURBISHING MY LIFE
AM NEW YORK - "THE DATING LIFE"
AUGUST 28, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON
AM NEW YORK - "THE DATING LIFE"
AUGUST 28, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON
Last week, I told an old friend of mine about my recent break up with The (Ex) Boyfriend. "Where are you living now?" he asked. "Um … same place, with the ex," I sheepishly answered. "WHAT?" he sputtered.
Er, yes. It's been three weeks since we split – and I'm expected to clear out already? This is Manhattan! That's impossible!
According to a recent New York Times article ("helpfully" emailed to me by a cruel, cold-hearted friend), vacancy rates hover at less than 1% while city rents have increased 15% since last year. Fabulous! As if the thought of moving doesn't already make me break out in hives, now I know it's even more onerous than usual.
Oh yeah – and have I mentioned I don't own anything anymore?
One of the benefits of moving in with An Established & Metrosexual Boyfriend is that they tend to own furniture that didn't come from the IKEA in Elizabeth, New Jersey. And couches which don't need slip covers to hide the vomit stains. And real artwork – not framed Guinness posters.
It's unsurprising, then, that all of my furniture (and dishes, curtains, bedding, toothbrush holders) was shunned in favor of "higher-quality" items in the beige/tan/taupe family. Our apartment looks like a hotel suite at the W. Pink is definitely not allowed.
Although I threw a small hissy fit about getting rid of my stuff at the beginning, I had to admit, he was right – my "Legally Blonde" belongings really didn't go with his sophisticated décor.
In any other city, I would have stored them in the extra closet or bedroom or basement. But here, that just wasn't going to happen – and so it went, on to Housing Works, or sold on Craig's List, or just abandoned on a street corner, waiting for a thrifty Manhattanite with a fetish for pink marabou.
It's been almost a year since I got rid of those things, and to be honest, I don't really miss them. But looking around "my" shared apartment in the last two weeks, I realized that if I moved out tomorrow, I'd have my clothes, my laptop and an enormous quantity of fuchsia dating advice books – but that's about it.
No TV. No microwave. No dishes or towels, let alone a bed or a desk or a bookshelf. I don't even own silverware!
So my home, which seemed very much His-and-Hers a month ago, now seems a lot more like His-and-She-Has-A-Closet.
Ironically, it's not the first time I've struggled with this issue. A little more than two years ago, I played house in California with my now ex-fiancé. After weeks of shopping at Bed, Bath & Beyond, days of fighting in the aisles of IKEA and months of constant reorganization (closets, kitchen, bathroom, closets again) – I broke up with him and moved across the country.
With little more than a few suitcases, I was relegated to starting over.
Of course, I promptly went to IKEA and bought the exact same furniture, the same bedding, the same picture frames (different photos). This time, though, it was all mine. All mine until, of course, it wasn't.
And now, after setting up three homes from scratch in the last two years, it looks like I'm going to have to do it again – although quite honestly, the thought exhausts me.
If I never again visited the Container Store, I'd be okay with that. If I never again searched Craig's List for a cheap-but-not-sketchy mattress, I'd be fine. If I never again had to open up a giant brown cardboard box filled with hundreds of pieces of wood and follow instructions that would confuse Bob Villa, I'd be overjoyed.
Although I wouldn't trade my time living with The (Ex) Boyfriend for any amount of pre-assembled furniture, there's nothing like a little "moving-out perspective" to make Manhattan Mini-Storage suddenly sound like the best deal ever.
Elizabeth, New Jersey, here I come. Again.
Oh yeah – and have I mentioned I don't own anything anymore?
One of the benefits of moving in with An Established & Metrosexual Boyfriend is that they tend to own furniture that didn't come from the IKEA in Elizabeth, New Jersey. And couches which don't need slip covers to hide the vomit stains. And real artwork – not framed Guinness posters.
It's unsurprising, then, that all of my furniture (and dishes, curtains, bedding, toothbrush holders) was shunned in favor of "higher-quality" items in the beige/tan/taupe family. Our apartment looks like a hotel suite at the W. Pink is definitely not allowed.
Although I threw a small hissy fit about getting rid of my stuff at the beginning, I had to admit, he was right – my "Legally Blonde" belongings really didn't go with his sophisticated décor.
In any other city, I would have stored them in the extra closet or bedroom or basement. But here, that just wasn't going to happen – and so it went, on to Housing Works, or sold on Craig's List, or just abandoned on a street corner, waiting for a thrifty Manhattanite with a fetish for pink marabou.
It's been almost a year since I got rid of those things, and to be honest, I don't really miss them. But looking around "my" shared apartment in the last two weeks, I realized that if I moved out tomorrow, I'd have my clothes, my laptop and an enormous quantity of fuchsia dating advice books – but that's about it.
No TV. No microwave. No dishes or towels, let alone a bed or a desk or a bookshelf. I don't even own silverware!
So my home, which seemed very much His-and-Hers a month ago, now seems a lot more like His-and-She-Has-A-Closet.
Ironically, it's not the first time I've struggled with this issue. A little more than two years ago, I played house in California with my now ex-fiancé. After weeks of shopping at Bed, Bath & Beyond, days of fighting in the aisles of IKEA and months of constant reorganization (closets, kitchen, bathroom, closets again) – I broke up with him and moved across the country.
With little more than a few suitcases, I was relegated to starting over.
Of course, I promptly went to IKEA and bought the exact same furniture, the same bedding, the same picture frames (different photos). This time, though, it was all mine. All mine until, of course, it wasn't.
And now, after setting up three homes from scratch in the last two years, it looks like I'm going to have to do it again – although quite honestly, the thought exhausts me.
If I never again visited the Container Store, I'd be okay with that. If I never again searched Craig's List for a cheap-but-not-sketchy mattress, I'd be fine. If I never again had to open up a giant brown cardboard box filled with hundreds of pieces of wood and follow instructions that would confuse Bob Villa, I'd be overjoyed.
Although I wouldn't trade my time living with The (Ex) Boyfriend for any amount of pre-assembled furniture, there's nothing like a little "moving-out perspective" to make Manhattan Mini-Storage suddenly sound like the best deal ever.
Elizabeth, New Jersey, here I come. Again.