I’ve been redecorating and revamping my soon-to-be apartment lately. The original walls were this terrible off-white. It looked as though the white just got too tired and slacked off. Disgusting. And I’ve found evidence that before the lazy white, some genius painted the entire apartment navy blue. Even more disgusting.
We’re making the kitchen and main living areas a nice sandy tan, with white trim. My entire house back in San Diego was painted that color and it is both warm and sophisticated. It feels home-y to me. We’re adding a green accent wall in the living room to spice it up. Then the bedrooms will be blue-grey, cool but bright.
It’s a simple thing, painting an apartment. But the other night, I realized that the idea of getting excited at an apartment makeover is so, well, old. I get more excited about paint chips and couches than I do about manicures and makeovers.
Maybe I’m desperate for a home. But I think it’s more that I’m hungry for something that’s mine. Beautiful as my current apartment is, sharing a room with one person and the rest of the apartment with three is isolating in its own right. Even the things that are mine (like couches) aren’t mine. Not really. Because my annoying sublet sleeps on them with her 30-year-old divorcee boyfriend.
I want a room. I want control (shocker!). I want home and comfort and something that’s all mine. Maybe someday, I’ll be surrounded by everything that’s all mine. Even a dog. A girl can dream.
