I am halfway through my couch surfing odyssey and honestly cannot wait for it to be over. Why am I crashing on my friends’ couches for the month of December? What I tell other people is that I did not want to leave my students hanging before winter break without a tutor. The real truth is that I was too scared to commit to actually moving, and wanted to continue my New York City life for as long as I possibly could. So here I am, sleeping on my friends’ floors because I am a big baby.
I need to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of the friends that have let me crash on their floors, chairs and beds these past weeks. I am eternally indebted to you and your kindness. I do have a confession though: I have used your toiletries and for the most part, not told you. I just can’t help myself; when I see a new shampoo, I have to try it. So, sorry for the unauthorized use of your goods! But how else can I try new products without financially committing to a new product I might hate?
This whole NYC apartment tour has taught me an important fact: my apartment was a total hole. I’m saying that in the nicest way possible. Every apartment I have seen has been better than mine in every possible way. Each apartment has had a bathroom that you can turn around in; fridges that keep food cold instead of ones that leak, stoves where all of the burners work instead of just two, kitchen sinks that do not leak, and counters that do not have peeling particle board that is covered in mold.
I always thought that all apartments were like mine. I thought I was a baller on a budget. I was dead wrong. And you know, my friends never told me. They never said, “Holley your apartment is disgusting, you might want to consider upping your living standards.” So now, I am moving to an apartment that is approximately three times the size of my old apartment where nothing is broken or moldy or disgusting. And I have a yard now. Suck it, NYC.
I do have to say though; for all its faults, I loved that apartment. That apartment is where I finished college, where I got my first serious boyfriend (who I’m now leaving New York for), where I lived next door to a man who claimed to be 104 years old and would call me “beauty, beauty” when we passed on the stairs. It was the apartment I rode out Hurricane Sandy and the resulting black out, where my fellow East Villagers lived like residents of Panem’s District 12. There’s a lot of history in that musty old clap trap and I will miss it.
An ironic end to my apartment saga is that the girl who took on the lease of the place was just informed by the management company that she has to move out by February 1; the management company wants to renovate the apartment and jack up the rent for a new tenant. What is horrible is that they never told her this when she was taking over the lease. What jerks! I will say though, that apartment really needs a serious facelift.
Moral of that story: I would have had to leave my apartment no matter if I moved to Troy or not. At least I left on my own terms.