The Hunt for Independence

So I am gearing up for a pretty big change in the next couple of weeks; moving into my first post-college apartment in a new city. Granted this new city is only about 20 miles away from where I currently live, and I did live in an apartment (albeit on campus) for three years, so I am not totally new to the world of independent living, but I am still feeling the crunch of a big life change.

I am absolutely a creature of habit. I fall easily into comfortable patterns and tend to stick with them until life forces change upon me. Since graduating, my patterns have tended more toward those of a middle-aged male plumber, ie. my father, who has graciously allowed me to stay with him for the past year while I figure out some kind of life plan, instead of the more appropriate patterns of an upbeat 22 year old woman. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. He is a great guy, and I feel we have become a lot closer in recent months. But until this past year, I hadn't lived with him full time, for an extended period of time, since my parents divorced in 1997. With few friends in the area, and a small work environment where the people are fantastic, but everyone in the office is married with small children or busy with a girlfriend/house renovations/small business, it has been tough finding people my age to hang out with. So I have become something of an old woman. I go to work, hit the gym, get home to make myself some sort of vegetarian concoction with whatever I can find in the cabinets, work on some sewing or the crocheted blanket I have been trying to finish for the past two years, maybe read a book, and then go to bed, usually around 10:30. Not exactly the thrilling life I hoped for.

I began looking for an apartment, and a roommate. My first attempt at finding a friend to live with, not so successful. The one person in the area I could think of, a great friend of mine from high school, and probably the most perfect 1st grade teacher you will ever find, was not quite ready for the break from home. And that was fine, but I was itching for a place of my own where I could set up camp, have people over for dinner, throw the occassional party, and all those other things I couldn't do in my father's tiny two bedroom apartment where the median age of the complex probably didn't dip below 65. So I searched for places I could afford on my own. I wasn't particularly interested in living alone. I feared the solitude that would accompany coming home to an empty apartment every night. My father may have been "watching" a Yankee's game through his eyelids every night, but at least he was there, and would rouse to say hello when I came in, and occassionaly enjoy or at least pretend to enjoy my vegetable delights.

Sadly, or perhaps serendipitously, the only places I could find in my budget were either the size of a postage stamp with a living room just wide enough for me to stretch out my arms and touch my fingers to either wall, or dumps where I would fear taking showers barefooted. Feeling resigned to wait patiently for my friend to get sick enough of her parents to move out, I kept on crashing at my dad's. Really, it hasn't been terrible. Though perhaps not quite bursting with excitement, I didn't have to pay rent, (which allowed me to visit my sister and the rest of my family in Rome for a week) it was a short commute to work, and I got the bigger bedroom so I could set up my Trinabags sewing station. But then out of the blue, I get a call. One of my sister's best friends is looking for a bigger place, would I like to room with her? Abso-fricken-lutely.

We started hunting. She suggested Saratoga, a hip young town with a great art scene, funky bars and restaurants, and the track. At first I was hesitant about the commute, having never had one before, but then we looked at some places, walked around the super downtown, and my feelings shifted from hestitancy to how fast can we make this happen.

The first few places were nothing to write home about, but then on our way home after a few unsuccessful viewings, I saw a "For Rent" sign in front of a big old Victorian located just a five minute walk from dowtown. We called the number, and the landlord said, "It's open, take a look if you want." The place felt right from the moment we walked in. Two floors, a living room, a dining/kitchen area, two bedrooms, plenty of storage, and all the charm you would expect from a house dating back to around 1890. Not wanting to rush into anything, we both took the night to think about, though in retrospect, I don't think either of us really needed it. Then next day, we said we'd take it, and signed on the dotted line. Now I am in the process of retreiving my stuff from the three different states where is has been housed for the past year, North Carolina, Virginia, and New York. Once I have it all, I'll be moving in, and throwing a huge fricken house warming party. :) Handsome, single, young men are welcome.