From growing up in a family of 5, to the roll of roommates and addresses since I moved out at 18, I've (happily) never lived alone. When Nick and I moved in together last May, I felt for the first time in my life that I could claim a household. A household that said "Welcome, world. Our respite from a gritty, demanding world is apparently a carpet of t-shirts, and cat hair drifting like snow." And it stayed that way, I'll admit, for nigh ten months of pre-wedding frenzy (good excuse!) followed by fall and winter lethargy (not-good excuse!).
Ever since Nick decided to go for the PhD instead of calling it quits after the impending Master's degree, I've been excited to get the place settled. We could be in this very apartment for the next five years. While we both save every month for a someday down payment, I no longer feel like we "should" be trying to buy a home soon. Which, great, because if we wanted to buy anytime soon we'd be should-outta-luck.
A certain grayness has lifted around me. Maybe it's the sun-drenched afternoons lately, or that I started taking my vitamins again. Something flipped over in my head like a train station schedule and I feel suddenly very aware of this stage in my life, how modest and uncomplicated and cozy it is. We don't have much but we owe nothing, and so we buy the ten dollar block of Gruyere, we say yes to presenting at the conference in Portugal during high tourist season.
Maybe in five years, Nick's best offer is at a university in the middle of nowhere (my nightmare, sorry!) and then we can buy some splintering turn-of-the-century homestead for a song, right? And install a farm sink and build a yurt in the backyard or whatever displaced bleeding-heart urbanites do in such circumstances, ha. But I can't spend five more years not living at "home".
So I bought curtains for the bedroom from a hip bourgie retailer. They were on sale but still overpriced. I think The Dude would agree they really tie the room together.