Perhaps you remember moving in with your partner or spouse, or your goldfish and aunt Rita's hand me down furniture.
I remember packing up my bedroom, spending $1000 in one go at the local walmart and moving into a small suburban one bedroom, 400 sq feet including closet space condo with my boyfriend. I was 23.
It had been effortless, finding the place was easy, he wanted to stay out of the city. We had enough income to support most modest existences in the burbs and I wanted in suite laundry. Done.
Well, Here I am again. Living with Mom and Dad, and 2 younger than myself siblings. Somewhere I thought I would never be again.
For the last few weeks I have been tirelessly calling building after building, spending every waking moment post 5pm searching for that place. A new home. One that doesn't make me feel like I will die, or get buried by cockroaches fear factor style.
3 years after my my very first apartment. I make more money, I don't have to consider anyone's preferences other than my own. Still, somehow I find myself 1000 times more overwhelmed that the cumulative total of condo hunting, wedding planning and Christmas Eve shopping.
Then it hit me, when it always does. I was lying in my bedroom, listening to my father snore through the walls like he was trying to keep wild animals at bay, when I realized. My life is never going to be like it was. I will never have the things I had. It is a trade off. A trade of for my safety, for my happiness, for a fresh start at life. Sure, It can't be the same, but it will be better.
So, I suppose I should get back to Google street viewing neighbourhoods where I have never been and debating beside Jr. 1 and 1 bedroom or Low rise and Highrise apartments.
Wish Me Luck.
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