Thankfully, because this is just my blog I don't have to
make succinct points. I could go multiple directions with the fact that out of the 20 or so tenants that I've seen in my new
building since moving in on Saturday, all but one has been clearly under 30.
One, I could be depressed that at 40 I finally have a
grown-up apartment and still need $800 a month help to pay for the cheapest one
bedroom ($2,950) while there are 20-somethings paying more and living like this
is normal. Seriously, who the fuck are these people? There is this perception that all new construction in once-hip neighorhoods is the domain of finance dudes, (I considered Long Island City of the aforementioned link, especially since my office is moving ot midtown, but it seemed too isolated) but really it's all a bunch of kids who may or may not work.
Two, I could be dismayed that despite the building being 99%
young, my next door neighbors are 40+ (at least the
father is; I haven't seen the mom who's probably 31) with a small child? (Did I
ever mention that the only open unit next door in the condo, a
non-stroller-in-the-hall type place that has only two families with children
out of 34 units, ended up being sold to a couple with twin 15-month-olds? Babies follow me.)
Three, ok, there isn't a third really. I am strangely
pleased with myself, though, for picking possibly the least appropriate
neighborhood for a chunky sort-of-single middle-aged woman. (I exaggerate–not about being a chunk, but that a good number of non-millennial
friends live in the vicinity.)
I now live on Hope Street, which a cornball would interpret
positively. It's as cornball as naming a baby Clydesdale Hope in a Super Bowl ad with a
Fleetwood Mac song playing in the background. (I've realized that all the
Fleetwood Mac resurgence is due to the 30th anniversary of Rumors.)
I did take Henry Street, the location of the
apartment in Carroll Gardens, as a sign. (Henry Thomas and all–I don't expect
anyone now to know of this ancient obsession.)
There is that dubious statistic that I don't have the energy
or wherewithal to track down that posits that moving is the most stressful life
event after death of a loved one or divorce. Ridiculous. There is also that one
about most Americans living less than 50 miles from where they were born, which
is another level of ridiculous. I kind of like moving (so does most of my family, so
maybe I'm desensitized to nomadism). Pre-NYC I probably moved once a year.
Granted, I have a lot more shit now and leases, not month-to-month are de
rigueur here, not to mention how cost-prohibitive it can be with standard fees
equaling 15% the annual rent (I've always managed to avoid this) on top of
first, last, security and all that.
That's me, trying to figure out my share of spices, baggies,
pots and pans after nearly nine years of consolidation. I did not take any of
the six or so balsamic vinegars, however, there are basics you don't think
about like canola and olive oils, black pepper, Cholula sauce. And the non-food things like a toaster, iron,
garbage cans, cleaning supplies, TV, lamps and so on.
New kitchen, neutral but not shabby. In Brooklyn luxury just means that your appliances aren't from the '80s and that you have counter space. (Do keep in mind that
my last solo rental was in a basement with red shag carpet.) I was concerned that I had too much stuff because I'd only seen the
apartment for maybe 4 minutes a month ago and was blank on the storage situation. In
reality, I have empty shelves and drawers in the kitchen, plus three full
closets (and part of an additional closet where the washer and dryer are hidden
away), enough room for Costo-sized packages of toilet paper and paper towels, an additional surburban-in-the-city comfort. There's not a thing to complain about (well, not being able to wallpaper
or paint, if I had to settle on something). All the appliances, not Bosch or Wolf, of course, are shiny and yet–to-be used with fresh manuals and warranties
in unopened plastic bags. That's luxury too, I suppose.
Now I think it's fun to buy those brooms, mops and cereal
bowls. Less so in '98 when I picked up these two vintage-looking juice glasses
at the 99-cent store. I had no idea they were still in my possession until they
recently turned up. No longer needed in my life, I'd put them in the for-Salvation Army box. But because
the for-Salvation Army box never got taken to its intended destination, I
softened and kept them for old time's sake (and was thankful to be able drag out the
duplicate cheese grater, spatulas and wooden spoons).
Based on all the boxes piled up in the package room camouflaged
in artfully distressed wood
(seriously, I would run downstairs and take a photo of the insanity–one of the
moving guys compared the lobby to Dia: Beacon–but I'm not dressed) no 20-somethings
are buying 99-cent dishware.