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I have lived in four different apartments in my two and a half years in Manhattan.  Thats four moving trucks, four security deposits, four landlords, and one bank account depleting storage unit.   These action packed years have taken me from the West Village to Nolita to Brooklyn and back to Nolita, each neighborhood and each apartment promising a new, more grown up, more exciting, more spacious, cooler, better, bigger, life.  Obviously, there is flaw in my philosophy.

The realization that I have trouble settling is nothing new, but I’m coming up on my fifth move in November.  Yet, instead of feeling like the utmost failure/money waster, I am excited.  I’m already thinking about furniture, and re-organizing, and wintertime dinner parties in my new art filled, antique stocked apartment.  The luxury of a doorman, a walk in closet, and my own bathroom are clouding my brain with fantasies of rainy days reading art history books and having the space to get dressed, listen to music, smoke cigarettes, and put a little mascara on, ALL IN THE SAME ROOM!  I am fully invested in my new life-to-be on 9th street and 5th ave.  New neighborhood means extra excitement.  The tricky part is not straying too far away from the charming, yet tiny, unkempt, cluttered, no bathtub, six floor walk-up that I still occupy.  Once you are consumed with the future that doesn’t exist, life becomes a proverbial purgatory filled with resentment and negativity.  Though these feelings will banish at the sight of my new gilded lobby (complete with elevator!), I’m not sure they ever actually dissolve.  Rather, in my experience, they lie dormant, waiting for the end of the year long lease and another fantasy apartment to come around so they can step up and do their job.  It’s worked quite well the past four times, but I’m taking a stand.  Ruin my last two months on noisy, overpopulated, breath-shortening Kenmare Street?  Not this time.

I may be moving, but I’m also still living.  Maybe this time next year, I’ll stay put.

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