I have lived in my current apartment for about six months. Since moving, I have bought one piece of furniture (a single Saarinen chair). I received a bar cart for Christmas, and some hand-me-down furniture from my mom’s garage (all against my will, except my grandpa’s Eames lounger), but other than that, my furniture from my teensy apartment in DC is all that’s currently in my large, lofty place here in Atlanta. I also haven’t bought rugs. I have 1,200 square feet of bare concrete floor, except what’s covered by a few chairs and mis-matched sofas. Sofas I don’t ever sit on.
I wanted a nice apartment when I moved here because, well, I’ve lived in some real depressing places. Apartments that just happen to be underground, or where my car gets broken into, or are the size of a nice walk-in closet, or are mustard yellow inside and don’t have functional heat or air conditioning or closet. Some really depressing places. So when I got here, I rented a big loft apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, a roof deck AND a balcony, a functional dishwasher and a big closet. Actually one big closet and then four more smaller closets. Really. I loved it. And I still love it. I’m just never here.
You see, I love my job. Today, I left at about 6 p.m. Yesterday I left at 7 p.m. Twice last week I didn’t leave until after 8 p.m. I like being there. I like the people I work with. I like it when we hang out in my office talking about stuff until whoops, is it really 8 p.m. already? I guess I should go home so I can get ready to be back here in 12 hours. So I come home, clean up my breakfast mess, put on my jammies and then usually get in bed and read, or write, or goof around on the Internet. On the weekends, usually I sleep in, do laundry, buy groceries (mostly just cereal, milk and coffee), and then do some more reading, writing or internetting in bed. I use a full-sized-bed portion of my giant apartment 90% of the time I’m home.
I think about furniture sometimes. I look at $4,000 sofas with gorgeous Florence Knoll tweedy fabric. More Saarinen chairs. Eames molded plywood chairs. Entertainment centers. I look at plans for building my own custom bookshelves. I think about putting a rug someplace. I go to IKEA and walk around for an hour and leave only buying lightbulbs or batteries.
I signed a one-year lease here. What’s the point of nesting if I’m never home? And if there’s the possibility I’ll just move in six months. I don’t have furniture to invite people over for meals, so I don’t, even though I love cooking. (I do cook things and take them to other’s houses though.) I don’t have people over, so what’s the point of buying a dinette set? (It’s a self-perpetuating home cycle.)
Come to think of it, why did I even unpack? Why don’t I just put all my stuff in a storage unit and live in a studio apartment with my bed, since it’s the only furniture I ever use? I could set it up like a treehouse. Get a hammock. Keep the windows open. Live like that until I decide I’m ready to be permanently attached to a place long enough to justify putting books on shelves instead of just in boxes. But what will change in my life to make that feel right?
Sometimes I’m not going to make a point with a post. I’m just going to put down my thoughts somehow. Maybe I’ll make a point with this someday, but not right now. I just don’t know what I want right now in this area of my life, and I don’t want to waste a lot of energy doing something (decorating or buying furniture or whatever) just for the sake of doing it. I’d rather wait to make the right decision and then go from there. So what if that means there’s nowhere to sit.