Home
As I was driving over to my dentist’s office today, which is situated very close to my old apartment, I realized it felt like I was driving… home. We’ve been in the new place for a month, and for some strange reason, it still feels temporary. Unreal. Fake. Don’t get me wrong, I like my new apartment. It is nice. Now that we have pictures on the walls, and put up the Christmas tree (I wasn’t joking when I said it was going up over the weekend!), it should feel more homey, right?
So why is it that this new place feels more like “the place I am staying” rather than “the place that I live”? By all accounts, it’s much better. It doesn’t have a yard, but it does have a balcony and a garage. It has a dishwasher and a washer/dryer. It has an air conditioner. The neighbors aren’t loud. The shower doesn’t decide to randomly scald, then freeze, me. People aren’t vandalizing cars here. It’s not quite as cold as the old place, and there’s better space usage. The oven doesn’t set off the smoke alarms. Maybe it’s too nice. Maybe I can’t handle that it’s so nice!
So it was surreal to drive into Costa Mesa, thinking, “What’s up, I’m home,” and to feel so displaced in the place that actually is my home. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent only one weekend there, with all the craziness of late, and we’ve only had one guest actually come visit us because we haven’t been there! I would think that being there on the weekdays would make me feel more settled.
I do like my new apartment, and I’m so fortunate, because it’s pretty cheap when split between three people and is probably the nicest place I’ll live for a long time. And maybe it’ll start to feel like home soon. Conclusion: I’m a neurotic freak of nature, and living here is like sleepwalking.
In other news, slightly-overeager coworker has again slipped into slightly-annoying-flirty mode, another has decided to show me all her kimono, writing is progressing slow and steady when I’ve had time, and I somehow banged up my foot. I wonder what I did. But I had an absolutely fantastic weekend, so I’m happy and floaty right now. UGH. When did I get so girly? *bursts*
So why is it that this new place feels more like “the place I am staying” rather than “the place that I live”? By all accounts, it’s much better. It doesn’t have a yard, but it does have a balcony and a garage. It has a dishwasher and a washer/dryer. It has an air conditioner. The neighbors aren’t loud. The shower doesn’t decide to randomly scald, then freeze, me. People aren’t vandalizing cars here. It’s not quite as cold as the old place, and there’s better space usage. The oven doesn’t set off the smoke alarms. Maybe it’s too nice. Maybe I can’t handle that it’s so nice!
So it was surreal to drive into Costa Mesa, thinking, “What’s up, I’m home,” and to feel so displaced in the place that actually is my home. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent only one weekend there, with all the craziness of late, and we’ve only had one guest actually come visit us because we haven’t been there! I would think that being there on the weekdays would make me feel more settled.
I do like my new apartment, and I’m so fortunate, because it’s pretty cheap when split between three people and is probably the nicest place I’ll live for a long time. And maybe it’ll start to feel like home soon. Conclusion: I’m a neurotic freak of nature, and living here is like sleepwalking.
In other news, slightly-overeager coworker has again slipped into slightly-annoying-flirty mode, another has decided to show me all her kimono, writing is progressing slow and steady when I’ve had time, and I somehow banged up my foot. I wonder what I did. But I had an absolutely fantastic weekend, so I’m happy and floaty right now. UGH. When did I get so girly? *bursts*