Am I old? Of course I’m old. I mean, I’ve always been a cranky, cynical 85 year old woman on the inside (and outside as well… sometimes I shop at Eileen Fisher…) But I must be old, because lately, I really, really want to buy an apartment.
I mean, I have a great apartment. Or rather, I rent a great apartment. For more than half of my monthly take-home salary, I might add. But what can you do? This is the (second) greatest city on earth (my heart will always belong to London) and it requires sacrifice to live here. I don’t mind… most days.
But I want to own property! Maybe it’s the Midwesterner in me? It must be. As I reach the turning point of my quarter-life crisis, I’m becoming so traditional! Not only do I now want to get married, I want to own a home. I want to paint it whatever color I want! I want to be able to hang pictures on the walls without worrying about how much of my security deposit I’m losing with each nail! I want hardwood floors and crown molding and a stainless steel sub-zero refrigerator! (As you can see, I also want to be independently wealthy.) I want an Upper East Side penthouse. No, a brownstone in the West Village. No, a sprawling loft in Tribeca. Ooh, a Riverside Drive condo! So many choices. I can fill it with antique furniture and black-and-white photos that I’ve taken on my travels around the world (assuming I ever actually do any more traveling.) I can sew curtains and make little potpourri sachets for each bathroom and… DO YOU SEE THE PROBLEM?
Who is this domestic diva? Where did she come from? Can I send her back? I’ve never wanted these things in my life. Potpourri sachets… I can barely keep myself stocked with tissues and contact lens solution. I’m no Brie Van De Kamp… I’m lucky if my dishes ever make it from the drainer back into the cupboard. I Swiffer maybe once a month, unless I’m having visitors. When the power’s out or the boiler quits or the basement floods, I like that I can call my landlord any hour of the day or night and make it HIS problem, not mine (but then, I suppose if I had a husband, I could make it HIS problem… reason #136 that marriage might not be so bad after all…)
All in all, it’s a moot point, anyway I suppose. I can barely keep my head above water, much less save for a down payment. I’m struggling to keep 3 months emergency money in my savings account, I’m never going to come up with 2 years’ salary for a down payment. Is this why people move back to the Midwest? Cheap home ownership? Yikes. We’ve clearly gotten the girl out of the Midwest, but it’s still going to take some work to get the Midwest out of this girl. I just want to own a piece of my beloved concrete jungle.
Is this adulthood? I resign. Where do I turn in my clubcard?
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