Now that I’m officially leaving the apartment that I’ve called home for the past four years, I’m becoming weepily nostalgic.
Despite frequent fights with the management company, near evictions, and general maintenance issues that make the dilapidated Sochi hotels look like Four Seasons, I can’t help but feel sad to leave my first grown-up apartment.
My roommate and I don’t officially vacate for another two weeks, but already every activity feels as if it might be the last.
The other night, we sat on the couch watching The Bachelor, shouting insults at the vapid women professing their undying love for the homophobic prick onscreen, and amid my giggles I thought, “This could be it. This could be the last time we’re both home in time to watch bad TV together…” Instantly, I teared up.
A few days later, as I crankily heaved the vacuum out of its hiding spot and began feverishly sucking up the dozens of hairballs that drift across the hardwood floors like tumbleweeds, I realized: “This could be the last time I clean up this room. The. Very. Last. Time.”
And then yesterday, when I stuffed an enormous load of laundry into the too small washer/dryer only to realize all my towels were now trapped inside for the foreseeable future, I thought, “Well, this sucks – but it might be the last time I use this piece of shit washer/dryer,” and I got sad. Well, almost.
The point is, I’ve loved my apartment and I’ve hated my apartment.
I won’t miss the leaking HVAC, the random hot water outages, the drafty windows, or the constantly broken washing machine, but I will miss the open space, natural light, and seafoam green walls of my bedroom.
It was – still is – a great home, and I’m lucky to have spent almost half of my twenties here. But even so, I’m ready to move on.
It’s time for change. My circle of friends has grown and shrunk; people have moved away and moved back; and I’ve just stayed right here.
Leaving 501 is just the start, but I’m excited to see what’s next.