#201

So yesterday I talked to two of the closest people in my life about whether I should move to Tremont or not. We spent a little time discussing pros and cons, and after I got off the phone the second discussion-round, I realized this:

If I could, I would wrap my arms around my apartment in a big warm bearhug; I'd send it a letter in the mail telling it how much I love it; I'd put it in a headlock and tussle its hair affectionately.

It may not be in the hippest of areas, it may be a complex and not a cute little quirky house, I may not have wanted to move in there in the first place, but it's been a damn good apartment.

I've slept there, I've eaten there, I've shagged there for almost 3 years. I broke up there, I started a new thing there, I've celebrated holidays there. I've booked through the apartment on my sweet blue 1970's rollerskates too many times to count. I've had my best most pleasant throw-up in the toilet there. I've been in many a relationship there. I've stood out in the middle of the parking lot in my bare feet and boxers and watched an eclipse there. I've had squirt gun fights there.

I've walked around naked in front of the window hundreds and hundreds of times. I've spooned in my futon with my best friend there. I've sat and had jovial games of Jenga on my kitchen floor many a time. I've boxed my significant other there. I've grown fond of our resident skunk. I've set a dish towel on fire. I've dropped so much stuff next to my stove that it's surprising the mold hasn't grown legs and walked the stove away. I've played many a game of bathtub Scrabble there. I've watched many a blizzard from inside with the warm company of friends. I've had friends pass out and hit their head on my bathroom floor. I've suffered many a lost memory from too much wine myself.

I've turned my bathwater near-black there after a week spent camping and showering only twice. I've put together a futon frame there all by myself. I've suffered many a night of insomnia there, enjoyed many a creative spurt. I've sat on my kitchen floor in only my undies at 2 am many a night and indulged in a heaping bowl of cereal. Many a shoe has dirtied the carpeting there. I've written many a poem there, sobbed in probably every room, made love in every room. I've flashed people walking by playing truth or dare. I've laughed at many a movie, watched friends get high and threaten to climb into my sink.

I've enjoyed many a bike trip to the library, spend at least an hour a week digging through mounds of books on its cozy familiar shelves. I've hiked back and forth between Midas many a day, through snow, rain, and sun. I've gotten cat-called on its streets, I've tracked down many a used book in its stores. I've had many a picnic in its parks. I've taken classes, I've made jewelry, I've indulged in a smoke as I walked on my way home and enjoyed the night sky. I've watched fireworks from the courtyard, spent many days chatting with the lifeguard and reading as I basked in the sun at the pool.

Quite a few friends, significant others, and family members consider it with warm regards as their second home.

It's been a good apartment. Not counting my mom's house, it's been my longest place of residence. I'd venture to call it "home."

So right now, I'm still up in the air about moving, something that may sound peculiar and goofy to some of you. But I do consider this my "home," lame and unhip as that may be. I may end up finding nothing that appeals to me when I start apartment-hunting this week, in which case I stay.

And then I may very well find a place that bowls me over to the point that it's obvious that there's no other decision that I can make and that I must move. In which case, I'll bid #201 my fond farewells.

And I'll miss it, no doubt. It's been a good little friend.

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