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Sometimes things would be easier if life imitated the movies.
When I moved out of my studio apartment last week, I wistfully thought of Carrie Bradshaw’s move in “Sex and the City.” She had moving down right. Plug in the music, pop the champagne and magically everything gets neatly packed and re-moved.
Reality, as we all know, is far messier. There aren’t enough boxes, packing material or patience to get the job quickly completed.
Plus, you have to wipe away the evidence that you ever set foot in the old residence.
I spent two years in my former apartment and like rings in tree trunks, the length of my residence seemed to be recorded by layers of burnt food in my oven.
It isn’t easy to erase your presence, I discovered as I furiously scrubbed the baked-on crud. You leave an imprint of your existence whether you want to or not.
I consider that efficiency rental to be my first true apartment. Before, I had rented from an employer who was pretty informal with the rental procedure.
There was no rental application or security deposit and he never checked any references.
So moving into that studio, to me, felt like moving up another notch in adulthood.
And moving up eventually made me hungry for more. So I found a larger apartment to live in.
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