After five years of working and saving while we waited for life to deal us a decent hand, Matt and I got dealt a whole lot of change in the space of a month. We've dealt with a store closing, which led to a job relocation, which led to a demotion, a small promotion, and then a BIG promotion, which necessitated a hasty move from the upstairs to an apartment two hours away. The universe was kind enough to wait until I'd shaken off a particularly nasty depressive phase before setting all this in motion.
We visited the first place that answered the phone and had an available suite within the needed time frame, and before the viewing was over the decision was made. A few days of paperwork and phone tag and we were ready to uproot.
I discovered my little Nissan has a Trunk of Holding, and thus we were able to move almost everything between two vehicles in one trip.
I now have big windows overlooking a river and mountain view.
I have red chrome small kitchen appliances, a cupboard dedicated entirely to tea, and a rubber ducky bathroom.
I brought my dance shoes. There's a studio nearby.
I'm flexing my thrift muscles and testing my practical skills as I try to set my castle to order. I hand-mixed and grated my own bulk batch of laundry detergent, made a package of chicken last through 3 dinners and as many lunches, made several Very Important Phone Calls like a grown-up, and set up our internet.
I also somehow mistook an electric stove for a gas stove, which immediately endeared me to maintenance when I had them look at it because, "Why no fire?"
(My first fridge poem, inspired by the encounter. I boldly pushed the limits of the medium with a direct quote at the end.)
The good news is, my stove is dated but perfectly functional. I just need to remember to not only switch off the temperature dial, but also turn the function dial from BAKE to OFF, otherwise it'll stay on for about 14 hours. Luckily, the place was merely toasty for a day. Burning it down would have meant another embarrassing call to the office.
We're still working on the whole furniture thing. My "desk" is a strategically placed plastic bin, a document box, and a stack of board games. Our mattress is on the floor in the living room, because we're still puzzling over how to construct our second-hand bed frame with nothing more than some pencil marks, a tool box, and our own wits to guide us.
I know how to get to Wal-Mart and that's basically it. My former district manager offered to pull some strings to get me an assistant manager position at a store location 10 minutes away, which flatters and terrifies me. It'll be twice as busy as my old store. I don't know the people or the work atmosphere. I'm not sure I have the mental resources to adapt to the increase in expectations and responsibility right now. Not when I'm still trying to get a household up and running, not to mention I've just started a new round of revisions on the novel that's turning out to be far more ambitious than I ever anticipated.
I'm both absurdly proud and painfully ashamed of myself, which I suppose is par for the course for a 22-year-old moving into her first place.
This winter was something of a Dark Night of The Soul. I started and abandoned 4 different posts about it before I realized it was more suited to private journaling than public airing-out. Now that my life is more dynamic than it used to be, I should be able to post here more frequently with more interesting content. I'll share some of my process as I work through Draft Three, a job hunt, some amateur furniture construction, and (hopefully) re-acquaintance with the ballet barre.