In 1998, I was 25 years old without a bachelor’s degree, a husband, or a kid. A former Mormon girl doesn’t know how else to be a grown-up without one of those three markers, so I took out a mortgage. My home was the smartest use of square footage I’ve seen to this day, a little two-bedroom beauty on the west side. I called it my “Tiny Condo in Hell,” and I loved it. I miss it more and more as I realize what real apartment living is like. It was a gem! With no neighbor noise, and tons of light and space. Of course, the plants swung like pendulums when the train went by, but that’s living in the Crossroads of the West (or on it). “Location, location, location,” as they say… I could afford it.
It was brand new, clean (but for construction dust), and mine.
My former roommate, Linda, stopped by on her way from L.A. to West Yellowstone. “It’s very zen,” she teased me. And it was. Empty!
You know, I don’t remember ever feeling a sense of lack. Not ever. Today, I had to vacate my share of a storage unit that a friend and I gave up. My stuff looked small in that cavernous space. Now I feel like I’ll never get out from under it. And do you know what I hear in my mind? “I need, I need, I need! I want.”