As a student, a lot of my life happens somewhat suddenly. As soon as I think I'm settled down in Kansas, suddenly a tornado whisks me off to who-knows-where.
A week ago, I thought I was secure in my current apartment for at least another month, maybe more. (I know, a month really isn't that much time, but it felt like enough--we don't have enough possessions for packing and moving out to take forever.) We'd decided to look for a new place, but there was plenty of time, I was sure. Maybe we'd start dabbling around for a few weeks, see what the rentals in the area are like, and then get serious several weeks down the road.
But when Doug and I saw an ad for an apartment that looked promising and immediately called the owner, we were suddenly lifted off the ground by a whirlwind that hasn't stopped since.
That was only four days ago. Since then, we've seen several apartments (ironically, we never saw the original one we called about) and we've found one we think is perfect for us. We start moving in less than a week.
I'm excited about the prospect of moving. We've lived in our current place for a year and a half, and the apartment--which was never particularly impressive in the first place--is getting stale. We'd need to move out by December eventually anyway, and this is the most convenient time, so it all makes sense. I'm excited to have a new place and new neighbors, to organize a new apartment, to welcome a new kind of life.
But I'm still hesitant. As fun as change is, "there's no place like home." And despite our best efforts to the contrary, I think this place has actually become home to me. I'm attached to our neighbors and friends. I'm attached to the tree outside our window. Our balcony. The park in the middle of the complex where the parents take their kids to play.
And as cliche as it sounds, I have memories here. We moved from a different apartment in the complex just a few months after we got married, and I remember how excited I was about the apartment--the big bedroom, the storage room in the back, the built-in bookcase. I'll miss those things. Even though we switched apartments, Doug and I have always lived in the same place since we were married, so it's our newlywed home. Moving somewhere else feels like we're moving on from that part of our life, in a way.
But then I think about the things I wholeheartedly won't miss: the prison-like cinderblock walls, the horrible carpeting, the tiny oven, the stove that's nearly impossible to get clean, the gold-flecked turquoise countertops that Doug has always hated, the hike to get to the laundry machines, the bathroom that reminds me of the house of that French girl who tried to murder her parents (they had a scary bathroom--maybe that's why she was a psychopath). In some ways, it's like I'm leaving a black-and-white world for a world of color.
I keep wondering if it's better to do it all in a whirlwind; I'm getting all the goodbyes and the nostalgia over with quickly while I'm still swept up in the excitement of a new place. But I also feel sort of unfinished here. Then again, I don't know if I ever would feel "finished." The longer we stay, the more attached I'll become. So maybe the whirlwind is the best way, after all.