I feel as if I have had three “first” apartments. I realize how silly that seems but I will explain.
The first time I moved out, I was angry.
I was 19, going to college, working at a job I had since I was 14 years old and felt that my family was unreasonably oppressing.
Looking back, my family was, with out a doubt how I remembered them.
I moved in with a friend from college who was a nut case. I did not know that when I moved in with her but I would later learn that she was absolutely psychotic. A nut case.
I came home from work one day and she had moved back to Michigan. Moved. Back. To. Michigan. I had lived there for two weeks. Since, I was not on the lease I lived in my car for three days and went back home.
The second time I moved out I was ready and better prepared.
I found a cute attic apartment, that I loved, but was hardly ever there. It was a one bedroom with a huge eat-in-kitchen, a huge living room with a separate sitting room and it was in the neighborhood I had dreamed of living in since I was in high school. I loved everything about the place from the old fashion fridge with built in, folding wine rack and a foot pedal to open the door to the light above the bathtub. I even had a grille in the back yard.
But, I spent more time at my boyfriend’s house.
I lived there for almost a year and moved out to move in with the before mentioned boyfriend. When we were in bed, I use to fantasize about that apartment. When we had sex, I imagined we were in my bed in that apartment. It was a great apartment.
The final, “first” apartment came when I left the boyfriend.
I actually hate describing him as a boyfriend because he was more like a one night stand that lasted six years. Most of the time it was bad, the other times were okay, but with hindsight comes understanding and he was just no good.
I had no idea how he would react to my leaving so I rented an apartment, sight unseen, a month before I told him I was leaving. I even had a phone number before I told him I was looking. I started moving my furniture that was in storage at his house, a little at a time and kept it where I worked because I was afraid of what he might do to my belongings, maybe to me, too.
I worked at a nightclub, so storage was not a problem nor was muscle when the time came. Luckily, he was okay with me leaving and even helped me move. Might have had something to do with him having another girlfriend but, eh, made it easier for me to start seeing my now husband a few months after I moved in to my final, first apartment.
The day I got my keys and opened the door for the first time I thought: freedom.
That night I sipped wine from a jelly jar, naked on my couch staring out the window.
Freedom.
