Jess
There is a disturbing phenomenon that I have noticed of late
amongst my friends. We don’t own furniture. Now I don’t mean those hulking
black walnut china closets our grandmothers would dust on Sunday or those Queen
Anne wingback chairs your great aunt never let you sit in. No, I literally mean
my friends and I, in our 30’s, don’t own normal, everyday, rest your arse,
furniture. I’m not sure when the cross-over occurred. When I moved into my
first apartment at 21 I had tons of furniture, all hand-me-downs my parents
grudgingly gave up to their oldest daughter. My father, still kicking, surely
would have requested he be buried with that damn orange velour sofa had it not
lived in my apartment for many years (and met a TIMLEY demise when my ex
‘accidentally’ lit it on fire). Along with the sofa, I was given a kitchen
table with chairs, book cases, an awesome green paisley Lay-Z-Boy, plastic deck
chairs, and I used all of it! I can still hear my sister lamenting the fact
that there would be nothing left for her when she eventually moved out (pretty
sure I did her a favor). There’s some kind of magic that happens in your youth
when you secure that first apartment. You feel like an adult and adults have
furniture. My friends were no different – all of them accessorizing with cast
offs from relatives, but at least no one had to awkwardly slouch against the
wall like our living rooms were some kind of old man bar.
After I dug out my car this weekend, I was searching for a
chair to hold my parking spot (parking chair – look it up) and I realized that
if I wanted to save my spot, I’d have to sacrifice one of only TWO chairs I
own. I no longer have a kitchen table and these two chairs are the last vestige
of that suburban dream (it died in the divorce). I am careful to only invite
over two friends at a time – they get the couch and I take the recliner. As I
thought about it, it became apparent that I’m not the only one. My bestie has a
habit of selling everything she owns every time she moves, and she likes to
move. She bought a couch on Craigslist about two years ago and it’s a two
seater. If you don’t call dibs, you are shit out of luck and stuck on the floor
with the dog. My buddy JR had to split up his adult living room set when his gf
moved to a different city for a better job prospect. I’m sure the couch
believed it would one day be reunited with the love seat, but as I had already
foreseen, they are on the rocks and the furniture set will remain incomplete.
He doesn’t have a kitchen table either and it’s no wonder we never invite
anyone else to hang out – no one wants to be squished on the sofa.
Everything I own is left over from the adult life I led in a
LTR when buying furniture and setting down roots was the ten year plan. When I
shrugged off that relationship to emerge anew, I slowly starting destroying the
furniture we shared. It was too big for my too small single-life apartment. I
replaced it with economic, space-saving pieces from Ikea that were never meant
to last the long haul. There is impermanence to my generation. We went from
stable 20-somethings to nomadic, unsure 30 year olds. Everything I thought I’d
have by this age, everything I was working toward at 22, is now a distant memory
as I sit slouched at my Ikea computer desk, sitting on a new $20 plastic desk
chair (I sacrificed the old, broken kitchen chair to hold my parking spot).
Y'A
Jess wants to know how people
in their thirties can still live like they are on a college campus. Well sit
down. Here is why. I assure you this is not a sad story. It is just a life.
When I was unceremoniously kicked out of the home in which I was raised a year
after my mom died, I moved to Brooklyn. I hated Brooklyn and the only reason
why I was willing to venture this far west was because my girlfriend at the
time, Michelle, swore she would help me AND help me adjust. I lived in a
Brownstone in Bed Stuy. I fixed it up like a home. Pictures of my nephew and my
ex's son were literally covering every inch of the apartment. My landlord had
two sons which was great for my nephew. Michelle spent most of her time in my
house. It was small. I wasn't used to the neighborhood, but it was me and I was
stressed, but felt safe. That is, until my landlord's husband beat the shit out
of her unbeknownst to me. I was upstairs and didn't hear any of it. She left
and I was evicted. Michelle and I were off again after a "respect my
house" type of argument. I asked her for my keys and I was faced with finding
a new place fast. The prospect of being homeless with my nephew weighed heavily
on me and yet Michelle outright refused to help me. She refused to listen to
me. So that's how I ended up in Bushwick. Further west . . . I was so far away
from where I grew up, I would dream of the house in which I used to live. When
I had to pack . . . took down every picture . . . I admired the fresh paint job
Michelle and I did in the bedroom, I knew I never wanted to have that home-ripped-out
-from –under- me feeling again. I now live like I am not quite unpacked. Don't
want to make too many footprints here. We were in Bushwick for five years before
I told my nephew we could get new furniture and paint his room. I was flush
with cash and there was no excuse. I was also in no jeopardy of being evicted.
Then my landlord said he was planning a million dollar remodel of the apartment
building. I told my nephew and he was disappointed. The remodel, of course,
never happened. Divorce rearing its ugly head again. So now I have been in my
apartment for ten years with barely any furniture because I am afraid of
packing and afraid of finality and I always have to be on the move. I am always
careful of making more memories in a place not mine. I am in the beginning
stages of buying my own house. Above all else, I think about the furniture and
the painting and the garden and office with the bookshelves lining
the walls. I don't even think about the neighborhood. I just think about
what I would do with a place that is actually mine and can't
be capriciously taken away.
