So I'm reading My Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in that House and I can't help but sense how well I truly understand the author's compulsion, need, obsession really, with moving and with place. While her descriptive ability is good, it is more than that.
Maybe it was being raised on the idea that I had lived in more than 2 states before I was 4. Maybe it was the numerous relocations of what was considered my bedroom while we lived with my grandma. Changing rooms or makeshift rooms was hardly inconvenient. I loved the idea of a new room, getting to claim a different area of the house for awhile.
When we moved into our own family home again in the third grade, there was a stint that followed sometime eventually where I decided that while my upstairs bedroom was certainly great, that living in the bathroom would make much more sense. It didn't matter that 3 other people had to use it. It was the efficiency of the idea. I could spend my time in a place that was mine, yet have easy access to necessities like glasses of water and the toilet. The tub would be both my tub and my bed, making bedtime bath time a simple if not a little damp transition. I would still need to leave to eat, but most snacks could be safely stowed with the washcloths.
Of course after moving stuffed animals and blankets and pillow and books down, even decorating a little (I threw a pink cloth over the lamp I had brought down despite the over head lighting and watched the tiny room swirl in pink) the inconveniences of living in a shared bathroom became quickly apparent.
Beyond this our little house did not offer the bedroom changing opportunity (space wise or rotating relative wise) that my Grandma's house had. This however did not stop me from rearranging my furniture on nearly a seasonal basis.
After we moved to the newer, bigger house my first year of college I continued moving my furniture, on my own, killing anywhere from a Saturday morning to a whole weekend cleaning and rearranging as much as possible. The one summer I lived "away" with a friend did not stop this really either. Though that wasn't my fault per-say. We were expecting a new roommate, so we moved into the double room together so neither would need to share with a stranger. 2 rooms, one apartment, 3 months.
Even the though the majority of my child hood was spent in no more than 3 houses, I think it is evident that I have always been a little restless about my living space. Even though, save the one summer, I lived at home in college it did not stop me from fantasizing about having my own place. Sometimes it was an apartment, sometimes a house. Sometimes roommates, sometimes a boyfriend, sometimes none.
It should be noted that I nearly had to be physically restrained from moving out my senior year of high school with my at time boyfriend. The prospective "house" was two rooms- a kitchen and a living room. There was a bathroom as well and that was it. Sadly, it was not the boyfriend I was desperate to be alone with, it was that house, for no other reason than it would be mine, and a new space to rearrange. A new space to see how I fit within it.
When I did move out (more appropriately with a much more appropriate boyfriend) I moved all the way out. Half way across the country out. The distance was because of the grad program I got into. It could have been anywhere, down the street, and I would have been just as ecstatic about having a space to call my own.
But having my own space hasn't mattered. Living here just three years I have already lived in 3 apartments. I am able to convince my husband that it is the best deal to move, because as far as I am concerned it is the best deal. And that is what it comes down to really. Me switching apartments when the rent changes each year is really no different than my attempt to centralize my living around the bathroom so many years ago.
Of course finding the best deal can also make you feel trapped. Convinced I have the best deal on an apartment possible, I have started looking at the houses. Maybe they're a better deal. You get a yard after all. But houses offer something else- a promise that I may for once feel rooted.
This is a complicated concept to explain because each place I have lived, however temporary, is rooted to me. I consider them homes and each one must be said goodbye to. It is never truly easy to leave them and the only thing that gets me through is the overwhelming excitement of the new space I'm about to occupy. But clearly, I have trouble staying rooted to them.
Reading this book has made me realize in a way that it may never end. Whatever I tell myself about the "settling" feeling that house will promise, it most likely just my next bargaining chip. The next best deal to convince myself that another move is worth it.
The author speaks about the classifieds/renting pages like they are pornography. While I wouldn't put it quite that way, I understand only too well. I get excited when I see an open house sign, whether I can afford it or not. Whether the location is logical or not. I sneak into apartments that I know are vacant, just to see the layout. Just compare it to what I currently have and to fantasize about how my belongings would look there, how I would belong there.
Empty space holds a world of potential, both for my things and for me. Maybe I simply have not learned to contend with space. Period. We have lived in this apartment only 4 months and I have already rearranged the living room. I got frustrated with our last apartment for no reason other than the layout did not allow me to rearrange the living room.
I already have plans for the bedroom. I have already tried to move again to a house, though it didn't work out. And that is probably for the best. The house would not have settled me. I am certain of this now that I have started reading this book.
My attention to space and how to use or claim it is an obsession, one that will flare and fade but never die.
Maybe it was being raised on the idea that I had lived in more than 2 states before I was 4. Maybe it was the numerous relocations of what was considered my bedroom while we lived with my grandma. Changing rooms or makeshift rooms was hardly inconvenient. I loved the idea of a new room, getting to claim a different area of the house for awhile.
When we moved into our own family home again in the third grade, there was a stint that followed sometime eventually where I decided that while my upstairs bedroom was certainly great, that living in the bathroom would make much more sense. It didn't matter that 3 other people had to use it. It was the efficiency of the idea. I could spend my time in a place that was mine, yet have easy access to necessities like glasses of water and the toilet. The tub would be both my tub and my bed, making bedtime bath time a simple if not a little damp transition. I would still need to leave to eat, but most snacks could be safely stowed with the washcloths.
Of course after moving stuffed animals and blankets and pillow and books down, even decorating a little (I threw a pink cloth over the lamp I had brought down despite the over head lighting and watched the tiny room swirl in pink) the inconveniences of living in a shared bathroom became quickly apparent.
Beyond this our little house did not offer the bedroom changing opportunity (space wise or rotating relative wise) that my Grandma's house had. This however did not stop me from rearranging my furniture on nearly a seasonal basis.
After we moved to the newer, bigger house my first year of college I continued moving my furniture, on my own, killing anywhere from a Saturday morning to a whole weekend cleaning and rearranging as much as possible. The one summer I lived "away" with a friend did not stop this really either. Though that wasn't my fault per-say. We were expecting a new roommate, so we moved into the double room together so neither would need to share with a stranger. 2 rooms, one apartment, 3 months.
Even the though the majority of my child hood was spent in no more than 3 houses, I think it is evident that I have always been a little restless about my living space. Even though, save the one summer, I lived at home in college it did not stop me from fantasizing about having my own place. Sometimes it was an apartment, sometimes a house. Sometimes roommates, sometimes a boyfriend, sometimes none.
It should be noted that I nearly had to be physically restrained from moving out my senior year of high school with my at time boyfriend. The prospective "house" was two rooms- a kitchen and a living room. There was a bathroom as well and that was it. Sadly, it was not the boyfriend I was desperate to be alone with, it was that house, for no other reason than it would be mine, and a new space to rearrange. A new space to see how I fit within it.
When I did move out (more appropriately with a much more appropriate boyfriend) I moved all the way out. Half way across the country out. The distance was because of the grad program I got into. It could have been anywhere, down the street, and I would have been just as ecstatic about having a space to call my own.
But having my own space hasn't mattered. Living here just three years I have already lived in 3 apartments. I am able to convince my husband that it is the best deal to move, because as far as I am concerned it is the best deal. And that is what it comes down to really. Me switching apartments when the rent changes each year is really no different than my attempt to centralize my living around the bathroom so many years ago.
Of course finding the best deal can also make you feel trapped. Convinced I have the best deal on an apartment possible, I have started looking at the houses. Maybe they're a better deal. You get a yard after all. But houses offer something else- a promise that I may for once feel rooted.
This is a complicated concept to explain because each place I have lived, however temporary, is rooted to me. I consider them homes and each one must be said goodbye to. It is never truly easy to leave them and the only thing that gets me through is the overwhelming excitement of the new space I'm about to occupy. But clearly, I have trouble staying rooted to them.
Reading this book has made me realize in a way that it may never end. Whatever I tell myself about the "settling" feeling that house will promise, it most likely just my next bargaining chip. The next best deal to convince myself that another move is worth it.
The author speaks about the classifieds/renting pages like they are pornography. While I wouldn't put it quite that way, I understand only too well. I get excited when I see an open house sign, whether I can afford it or not. Whether the location is logical or not. I sneak into apartments that I know are vacant, just to see the layout. Just compare it to what I currently have and to fantasize about how my belongings would look there, how I would belong there.
Empty space holds a world of potential, both for my things and for me. Maybe I simply have not learned to contend with space. Period. We have lived in this apartment only 4 months and I have already rearranged the living room. I got frustrated with our last apartment for no reason other than the layout did not allow me to rearrange the living room.
I already have plans for the bedroom. I have already tried to move again to a house, though it didn't work out. And that is probably for the best. The house would not have settled me. I am certain of this now that I have started reading this book.
My attention to space and how to use or claim it is an obsession, one that will flare and fade but never die.
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