Living in a college town, everyone moves during August. Yet a lot of the leases end kinda early. It's not uncommon for people to get stuck between leases. To shorten otherwise boring detail above who is moving and where, I've got three extra sets of stuff (a boyfriend who is in my apartment right now, a future roommate of my own, and a future roommate of one of the roommates who is leaving). Then my current two roommates who are going to need to move out next week, are going to get their inner archaeologist on, and excavate their treasures from the hoard. New roommate will bring in more stuff. Week after that, boyfriend pulls all of his stuff out. Somewhere in all of this I move my stuff to the big room.
It's a bit of a mess.
I'm squirming with excitement about the ability to get my apartment back. We slid a mattress behind the couch today. Despite it all, I've maintained the necessary channels for functioning life.
Yet there's something really exciting about all of this. I'm going to move into the new room, and this is a great opportunity to purge and start fresh. This is the time for glutting myself with pictures on apartment therapy about what I want to do with the space. It's big. There's two closets. And a little bathroom that is mine.
I want to push myself into every corner of the room. When a person walks into that space, their reptilian brain will speak up; voicing with the gut that they are in the territory of something powerful.
The room will function. I really only do three things in a bed room. Dressing, sleeping, and sex. All three must be tactile joy. I'm accepting nothing less.
Those are my requirements. I know what always holds me back. It's finding the justification to set aside the money to do it. Every bit is a little more student loans. As much as I love self expression through the items that decorate our bodies and homes, I never feel I deserve to spend the money. This leaves me with a closet of fading clothes that are affordable, socially appropriate, and loathed. And white walls.
When I was younger, I wore my frugality and plainness with stubborn pride. While I still value frugality, I've come to abhor plain. Neutral. Appropriate. Pleasant. Expected. All of it does something nasty inside.
Let me tell you why.
At the back of my medicine clerkship syllabus there was a list of all the things we were supposed to do. And separated from all of those "helpful hints" was this: "Do NOT offend the status quo." It was a statement that apparently didn't need explanation.
So much about medical school is social grooming to fill the role of what a doctor is supposed to be. How you must present yourself. How you must dress. What's allowed to go on your facebook. How you're allowed to speak in public. The sideways glances and big bad word of "unprofessional" getting pinned to your lapel if you don't. It's built into the curriculum in a minor way, but the culture is saturated with it. While it all makes sense, it is positively puritic to be constantly reminded of how to behave. I've never fit in with the kind of crowd that gets to decide what is socially on trend and what is not acceptable. I still don't. I've always been a little too loud. Too crude. Yet too goody two shoes. Not feminine enough. Whatever.
I was never embraced by the status quo when I was younger, and now that I am being groomed to a position of high social standing, it feels weird as hell to embrace it back. Somewhere along the line, my home has become this one place where nothing can impose on me. It's become vitally important that I shed this ridiculous notion that I can't spend any money on working towards a space I deeply enjoy unless no debts are owed, and every bill is paid in full for the next 6 months. Because it's the only place I don't have to wear the mask. And honestly, I don't even know what I look like underneath it anymore.
500 dollars in the grand scheme of things is not going to make or break me. That's the budget. And so help me I will paint that white box.
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