I sit in the middle of my apartment, 10 weeks into it, at this point. Massive Attack is playing from my phone; Better Things is on and I sing along with Tracey, “…you say the magic’s gone well I’m not a magician you say the sparks gone well get an electrician…” And hell yeah, I’m singing like I’m performing at some stage, in front of a crowd. I’m singing with a wholatta feelings—one of the perks of being alone, alongside tiring my ass out dancing 10,000x to Justin Timberlake’s Can’t Stop The Feeling. Notwithstanding those teeny moments when I crave for company, I relish these moments alone. Really. Not having to worry if my voice is out of tune or if that freaking dance move makes me look like a dumb ass. My kids would always say, “Ma, YOLO!” and that millennial contraction never held more meaning until now.
But alongside this freedom comes responsibilities. Not that I never learned as I plodded through my 40 years. I’ve known responsibility since I was in my teens. I held my firstborn fresh out of the university. I ran a household for over a decade. And to some, I may now seem to be enjoying life more than others do but my dearest friends would know where my worries lie: in my thrice a week HD sessions, in finding ample time to spend with K and G, in making ends meet to have all the people I love live comfortably. And with that list comes the eternal compulsion to keep sprucing up my place.
A year ago, my Pinterest page had been about clothing inspirations, but of late, it’s all about pins on keeping my tiny apartment tidy while also keeping within my prescribed household budget. It’s obsessing on purchasing the lamp that fits with the décor while making sure it’s energy efficient. It’s mastering how to cook fried chicken from my induction stove, while thinking—was it a good decision to cook the chicken first or should have it been the pasta? It’s getting up at 7 in the morning to turn off the A/C and then turning it up again at 10am because, damn, it’s gotten so hot. In the last couple of months, I devoured article upon article on room color schemes, the best way to repel insects from one’s home, storage solutions for when there are none, ekcetera, ekcetera. And, I still crave for the next free time when I can read through all of them, from my couch, so that I have a better visual of what else is amiss from my place.
I look around and I like what I see. My brown couch, my purrty throw pillows, my lovely TV rack, my paintings set as backdrop, postcards from my dearest friends, my growing vinyl collection, my shiny dining table, all my quirky thingamagigs and colorful doodads that reflect who I am. When I get home from work, I say hello to my place like, hey how you doing today, love, and this evening—because yesterday I also bought plants—I asked Zebra, Weed and Bulbasaur (yes, those are their names) if it had been hot in the apartment today. To date, I have not heard my walls talk back but I’m s’posing all’s been swell while I was away. And that’s good, right?
When friends would ask me, what else would I need for my home, I think I sortov give a faraway look as I imagine what else would be good to have. I have only a few things that I would like—a dresser, a bureau, perhaps—but other than two or three big ticket items, I think I can safely say that I’m good. All my life I’ve been wanting to have a refuge, a place that I’ve put together by design, and here I am sitting exactly where I want to be. It’s a damned good place be.
And I may be alone, well if only for tonight but please know I’d welcome company. My place ain’t fancy but I always have some liquor stashed somewhere and a bottle or two cold ones in the fridge—sometimes I also have ice cream! So come over, meet my plants, and maybe after a drink, we can dance like crazy monkeys who’ve just had too much of alone time.
***
Pictured: Knick-knacks at home
Finally Dee 