Goodbye old apartment, hello new apartment. It’s bitter sweet.
So we’re moving from an apartment on the second floor to one on the third floor. I’d make a joke about “movin’ on up”, but in reality it feels like we’re paying a bit more more for less space—which is both true and false simultaneously. Like, it feels true, but it isn’t true.
In our first apartment, we had a lot of open floor space but our bathroom was under the stairs and so there was a steep ceiling that made it feel like a hobbit’s den about a foot or so in. Also, the apartment was at the intersection of the main avenue and a dirt road, meaning we got a lot of noise pollution and kicked up dust. Cleaning twice a week was literally not optional. Also, it was impossible to make youtube videos of any good audio quality.
The upstairs apartment is literally an opposite-and-equal exchange. There’s less open living room space, but we have a nice-sized bathroom and an upper level with its own mini bathroom connected by a spiral staircase. Bae thinks it’s going to be “our” office, but he’ll soon learn what a “Sage Nest” is. The kitchen is cramped in comparison to the older one and I’ve contemplated putting a pantry in there but decided against it because ew. Anyway, because the apartment’s higher up and opposite the intersection, there’s no dust kick-up and no crazy amount of traffic and pedestrian noise.
Also, Miss Selena (our cat) isn’t at risk of falling out of the window. The old apartment had no bars on the window and being a cat, Miss Selena would basically lollygag on the edge of the window giving me a mild heart attack every time she moved. I also had the unreasonable fear that groups of marauders would see her and throw rocks or something at her and she’d lose her balance. None of these half-unreasonable fears hold any weight now.
Finally, I just found out that one of our floor neighbors is a buff couple. Literally didn’t know they existed until their door popped open and I was shirtlessly out of breath wearing green tartan PJs with a crow’s nest of wet keratin’d hair piled onto my head dragging our couch behind me. And what’s worse: I was wearing one of those ridiculous hairbands—you know the ones we collectively left back in like 2010-2012? It really was to keep the hair out of my eyes, but because I lack side hair it looked ridiculous.
Think Neymar, but with considerably less money, considerably less blond ambition, considerably less muscle mass and soccer skills, considerably less theatrical ability to fake an injury, and it’s basically the same thing.
Homo etiquette dictates that I make the [lack of] style look effortless and Regina George the shit, but in all honesty I looked a hot mess and all I could do was nod at them like a give a quick “bom dia” to mean ‘this isn’t like me; I don’t normally do this kind of thing; I swear I’m one of the better of our stylish ilk‘ before weeping and adding another entry to the Big Book of Bad First Impressions.
At any rate, big shout out to bae and the sis-in-law for all their hard work! As we went through the moving process, they really pushed it forward as I was working almost all of my waking hours with no way to meaningfully contribute to the move until the last day—and even then I had to skip town to meet a client. They’re the real MVPs!