In January of this year, I made the calculated yet still crazy-making decision to move from my home state of Texas to New York City. Perhaps it’s worth noting here that my calculations were based almost exclusively on emotional data rather than more concrete factors, like “having a job” or “moving in with a partner.” When I imagine myself as an annoying and terrible person, I explain my decision to move with, “I just really wanted to.” When I remind myself that I am a reasonable and kind person, the justification is more like, “I need to be true to myself and my long-term goals, and those goals do not live in Texas. Neither do my friends, who I miss tremendously. And honestly, why not?”
I’m still in grad school full-time, despite attending classes in the mushy cyberspace that has come to occupy many of my waking hours. Most of those hours, to be honest, have nothing to do with school, and much more to do with surfing Zillow for cottages in coastal Maine. Which might be bad. But really, how can the Universe expect me to focus on a three-hour Zoom lecture when it has dropped a glowing portal into infinite other worlds quite literally into my lap? In order to not be done in by my desperately adventurous spirit, I have taken to exploring as many places as possible, in as much detail as I can. Need a place to stay on the Faroe Islands and a hand-mapped bus route for sightseeing while you’re there? At your service. How about a business plan for a storefront property in the Catskills with apartments on the second floor? Call me up.
The weird thing is, though, this behavior isn’t new to me. Not by a long shot. In fact, I shudder to think how many days (weeks, more likely) all the hours I have put into this “research” would add up to over the course of my life. Like many of us, I inherited the real estate browsing habit from my mother, but I also possess an urge to plan that is all my own. Where I really am is rarely where I want to be. Especially now, for obvious reasons, because all the places I could go aren’t really options. But I have always been plagued by this pressing need to pack up, move out, start again.
As far as wanderlust goes, this impulse makes sense. But underneath the romantic notion of travel and escape is, upsettingly, the shame of dissatisfaction. As delightful as it is to look at pictures of beautiful homes and adorable little towns I’ve never been to, I don’t like what it seems to imply: the place I’ve put myself already will never be good enough. As much as I like to blame pandemia for feeling so stuck, I definitely went down day-long rabbit holes like this during normal times, too. Regularly.
I moved to New York City just over a month ago, after many more months of planning, wishing, hoping. I had spent my afternoons leading up to the move tracking down the right apartment, and after finding the One, counting down the days until I would be back on track towards whatever my Dream is. It felt like the right step to take, and still does, but the stuckiness of being alone in an apartment all the time hasn't really changed.
So if my big city apartment was so special in December, when I was fantasizing about it all the time, why am I hunched in a corner of it now, plotting my next escape? Have I really failed so quickly at appreciating this really lovely place that I relocated my whole life to?
In a bid to kick my gratitude back into gear, I’m committing the next several weeks to paying attention to my space and what I can do to make it feel as special as I know that it is. So far, a nice candle from Anthropologie and throwing a floral blanket over the sofa have both amplified the coziness factor, which is obviously the mother of all factors. My next project, I think, will be fighting grocery fatigue and investing in some baking supplies (like, say, measuring cups).
Listen, I’m not knocking the real estate binge experience. Far from it. I, like I know you will be, am obsessed with this absurdly cute cottage on an island off the coast of (you guessed it) Maine. 25 School Street?! I didn’t know it was even legal to have such a precious-sounding address. All I’m saying, as much for myself as for y’all, is that the anguish I feel over not being able to live the ten different lives that I desire, all at once and immediately, feels preventable. And, given the present limitations, the antidote might need to come from within. If not from within myself, at least from within my doll-sized apartment.
- Helen
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