Please forgive the brevity of this post. I was asked to step in at the last minute and find myself between wrapping up six straight months of film work and staring down the barrel of ten days to moving house. This does, however, offer some fodder for the blogosphere. I’ve found myself dealing with my impending move much like I would a break up. Most of the time, I’m happy with my decision… I’m moving on, taking stock, out with the old in with the new, if you will. But every once in a while I find myself nostalgically listing off the more charming aspects of my current location. It seems that even in a bad situation, one can fall prey to rose-coloured glasses.
You may have read my previous post detailing my mouse infestation. It’s all fine and good to make jokes, but really, rodents are rodents and co-habitation with them is best avoided. Add to this the recurring ant problem, the return of the backed up plumbing, a lackadaisical superintendent and her verbally abusive husband, and the complete lack of soundproofing (or weed-smoke-proofing for that matter) and one begins to feel they’re living just shy of skid row. Now for $700 a month, a person can put up with a lot… for a while. But when your over-all reaction to having guests over is embarrassment it may be time to cut your losses.
Ever have one of those boyfriends you didn’t want around your friends because even though you were fairly happy with him (despite his drinking/attitude/slovenly dress) you could just never be sure what he’d do in front of your peers? That’s what this apartment was like. I never knew if the hallway would smell overwhelmingly of weed or if there would be a thin carpet of ants in my kitchen… or best yet, when the stench of decay would signal the not-to-recent demise of one of my furry rodent roomies. And I’m not even getting into the weekly 4am Sunday sex show from the upstairs apartment. We all need to get release once in a while…
So I decided that I needed to end it with my apartment. It had been a good place to land when my polyamorous relationship with that colourful two bedroom hadn’t worked out, but let’s face it, I thought I could do better. So I put it out there… I was officially entertaining offers from habitat suitors. That’s when Brockton entered the picture. Soon to be vacated by a fastidious and fussy co-worker, Brockton was a slightly smaller one bedroom in an up-and-coming hipster neighbourhood. I was intrigued by its quaint and well cared for structure, and its large windows bathing the interior in light. Sure it had less closet space and a smaller kitchen, but its storage locker and proactive Super had a certain allure. All that and it came with references and a virtual guarantee to be rodent free. I couldn’t help myself. Seduced, I considered my options and decided a $250 increase in rent was worth the sense of self respect I could have guiding guests to this new oasis in the heart of Little Portugal.
But even the roughest breakups have moments of regret. I’m moving from the cachet and convenience of Liberty Village (although the underground street cred of the new area is significant) No longer a brief walk from the Go Train stop, visits to my family in the suburbs will require a bit more effort. I may have to switch gyms… I already find it almost impossible to go while I live minutes away on foot, transit may prove an insurmountable obstacle. But these all seem like staying with a guy because it’s tough being single. Holding on to a bad relationship because you hate going to parties alone, or you don’t want to come home to an empty house.
Just like with finding a partner to share your life, you have to choose a house which can be your home. Something that makes you feel like yourself, safe, and happy. Something you can be proud to call yours because when you’re there you feel like the best version of yourself. With any luck, I’ll have found that house that can be my home…
