For someone who overshares about everything from coffee poops and general dishevelment to inappropriate displays of sandwich consumption, even I know it's incredibly out of character to, oops, just sorta not tell anyone I'm moving to a brand new home. But...surprise! My male counterpart and I kind of spontaneously vacated our bizarro West Villy premises and now live out of boxes among a castle of bubble wrap in the lower half of SoHo.
Having made it from Bushwick to the West Village — my "Cinderella story", as I joke, because hahaHOWTHEFUCKDIDTHATHAPPEN — the majority of my kitschy artwork, brown vintage doodads and '70s bedspreads (oh yeah) have been snuggled next to each other in a very expensive cage down at the Manhattan Mini Storage for over a year now, as my siggy other's sublet was fully furnished by a lady we've never met. Meaning, besides last week's four-hour trip to Crate & Barrel, we together own nothing of substance. No chairs, no spatulas. No knives, no fitted sheets. Postcards with pictures of food on 'em framed in multicolored boxes? Well, obviously we got that shit down. But skillets? Televisions? Couches? Nuttin, nada, fughettaboutit.
I guess I never realized the subconscious toll living around someone else's things, designs and vision can have on you, but even surrounded by a cardboard skyline in our empty place with only a small handful of my rediscovered tchotchkes hangin' around, I finally feel like I'm home. Which, well, doesn't happen a lot, since I've been in New York for three and a half years now and have lived in...six different places. A long-term NYU apartment dorm, the place that burned down in Williamsburg, a Bushwick loft, the saddest East Village apartment ever, my boyfriend's Christopher Street spot and now: SoHo, land of Alexander Wang sample sales and future Opening Ceremony credit card mistakes.
It almost feels like a burdensome number of vaginal party guests, inflated to some wild degree by drunk mistakes and short-lived relationships I caved too easily on. But I don't know, shit happens, people break up, apartments catch on fire and all the sudden you're left with a corral of thrice-reused Coors Light box holding your favorite tchotchkes and you're moving to a new home for the thousandth time.
Granted, I like change. I looooooove change. And not the kind that's going to have me schlepping to TD Bank's Penny Arcade this afternoon because Chase Bank's Manhattan branches are apparently inept at having free coin counting machines. (Chicago, you've got hot dogs, pizza, all of my high school pals, cheaper fares and that on New York. Nothin' more, nothin' less.) The type that means possibility, hope, and another shot at actually keeping a well-wrangled closet. It's incredible how just walking down a different block can make the entire city feel new and exciting again when it just felt so stale and seen. The goofy fun of not knowing how to open the front door, getting on the wrong subway platform because your brain hasn't caught up with your body yet, it's kind of electrifying. Even if everyone in the neighborhood is a tourist and I spent $100 on kitchen knick-knacks on my store-filled walk home.
(Whatever, I needed that Guide To Winter Squash dish towel, thank you berry much.)