Since I mentioned recently that I was getting the itch to get back into the real estate game, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about life in the city.
A few things have occurred to me, and I am not sure you'd understand unless you've:
- a) lived in a huge city,
b) lived in a high-rise,
c) lived without a car or
d) lived on your own for a really long time.
So, here's to us. The apartment dwellers. The high-rise residents. The world-weary urbanites. The soloists.
With that in mind:
You know you live alone in an urban, high-rise apartment when...
...you now understand the idiom "not enough room to swing a cat" quite literally.
…you only have two small lamps and the whole room is bright.
…your social events have a max load capacity requirement guest list.
....you had to choose one color palette for every 'room' in your house since you can pretty much stand in the 'foyer' and see every corner of the joint.
...your next-door neighbor is a quiet Portuguese woman who cares for her not-so-quiet Portuguese wheelchair-bound mother.
...you have invented stories, and names, for the neighbors you see in the building next door.
...your arms are sore from the full-contact sport that is grocery shopping and walking the two-blocks and up the elevator and down the hallway and into the apartment only to dump it on the floor because your kitchen is too small before it gets put away and who's hungry anymore fact of the matter.
…you have to switch out the clothes in closet seasonally because only one season fits at a time.
...you recognize that privacy must be planned, as in, "I'm going into the bathroom for awhile, okay?"
...you have scheduled a luggage or a shopping cart from the front desk, a la the bellstand at a hotel, just to get your shopping treasures inside.
...you know that your upstairs neighbors are new parents and like to make love at about 9 pm on Tuesdays.
...you have experienced the 'use the stairs only in an emergency' down 13 flights when you awoke to the fire alarm, only to find out that the billowing smoke was luckily coming from the south tower of the building, not the north (yours).
…you can carry on a full conversation with someone in the kitchen from your bedroom.
...you see someone downtown, on the sidewalk, and you think you know them from somewhere, all before you realize that they run the 'volunteer library' in your building, which says something about your lack of social life.
...you have to dust the kitchen countertops and the dining room table more than once a week because of the dust from Lake Shore Drive.
...you know when your downstairs neighbor is cooking Italian, and you smell it long into the night.
...you have ridden in an elevator upwards of 12 times in one day.
...you have three overnight guest options—a pull out sofa, an Aerobed and to spoon with you.
...you know precisely how much laundry you can manage to carry in an elevator up to the 26th floor laundry room without wincing in pain.
...your wingspan is wider than your bathroom.
...you have towels and sheets folded into a linen closet that doubles as storage for your hotel-stolen-toiletries, your feather duster, your ace bandages, your laundry detergent and your extra lightbulbs.
...you live, shower, sleep, eat and drink within 4 yards of at least 12 people and you could neither recall their names or pick them out of a lineup.
...you know the Cubs are playing a night game because of the neon glow it makes in your bedroom and the sullen admission that, no, the applause is not for you.
...you have actually felt jealousy, no, rage, at the sheer envy that bubbles up inside when you overhear someone talking about their "backyard," "garden," "driveway," "deck," "patio," "garage," or, God forbid, their "cul-de-sac."
...you've decided that it no longer matters if the neighbor building sees you in your skivvies while you iron in the living room.
...you've felt self-conscious while putting your it-was-more-than-one-week-I-swear stash of wine bottles into the recycling bin in the trash chute room.
...you know your bus is coming because you can hear it before it arrives, and you may actually make it downstairs and out the front door before it pulls up to your stop, sortof like in grade school when you stood at the base of your driveway.
...your morning showers are affected by the untimely flush of your upstairs neighbor.
...you just vacuumed your entire apartment while plugged into one outlet.
That last one actually just happened to me and I laughed out loud.
Because it helps to have a sense of humor while trapped in a 900-square foot, 4-room looney bin.
Trust me.
Any other small-space urban dwellers that want to chime in?
By all means.
In fact, shout it aloud—I can probably hear you through the walls.
Posts
