In Italian, you say "Ho ventuno anni," to say "I am 21." The literal translation is "I have 21 years."
So I saw a cute studio last night. Perfect. Tall ceilings, huge closet, granite kitchen counters, new parquet floor. $800 a month. $40 for electric. I have the paperwork filled out and am even willing to fork over a ridiculous $250 non-refundable application fee to get it.
Then I had a massage tonight. A 90-minute massage that left me feeling like I'd been f*cked six ways to Sunday.
And on my wobbly-kneed way home, I realized that by moving to this incredibly cheap apartment in the middle of an incredibly poor neighborhood, I will be seriously limiting my social options.
Who will chat me up at the grocer's?
What will my neighborhood bar be like?
Who will make the trek for a booty call?
For many years, I bought $10 clothes off the clearance rack at Marshall's. Then a friend in Connecticut gave me a ton of expensive, gently used clothes, and she loaned me a $2,000 suit to interview in.
When you're deprived emotionally and financially over the years, you become inured to it.
Maybe that's not such a great thing.
I realized I'm turning a year older next month.
I have a great long-term temp job, and I am talking with a Canadian company about doing some consulting. My thought was, if those things fall through because of the economy, it would be better to have an $800 rent. But isn't that planning for the worst? I've planned for the worst for so long that so now when crappy things happen I'm not really affected by them.
Like when my massage table is stolen. Or when your kitchen has a roach infestation and your roommate doesn't care. Or when a roommate walks around without pants on.
But in this economy, isn't it wise to plan for the worst?
i'm a white writer. in new york. original, no? i've been blogging since october 2002. this blog picks up in october 2008, when i moved from DC to NY...(and then I moved to Maine in 2012)