I Moved Out

Today marks the first day of a new month, and I guess that it seems fitting to write about something new in my life.

It’s only when I sit down and reflect on 2021 as a whole that I realize there has been a lot of “new” for me in the past year. I graduated college, started my first full-time job, met my boyfriend, made some friends...but there’s been one experience in particular that inspires my post today: I moved out.

I’m sure that if you’d ask either one of my parents, they’d tell you that I’ve been waiting (rather impatiently) for this day for months now. I can’t even begin to count the number of times that I’ve nagged my dad - who just so happens to double as my realtor - about vacant apartments, leasing information, or how to calculate what I could theoretically afford.

I assumed that having a realtor-Dad would make the whole process easier, and while it did in many ways, there were some things that he had no control over. No matter how hard I pushed, he couldn’t make the perfect apartment appear with the snap of his fingers. Even when I found a place that looked remotely decent, there was no way for him to guarantee that my application would be the one to be ultimately accepted by the landlord.

So I scrolled with frustration at the same units listed on Zillow and Apartments.com, most of the time to no avail. There was nothing to do but dream about ones listed way above my budget, and shudder at ones toward the lower end of what I could afford. I ignored my dad’s pleas to be patient, and that I’d “find something eventually,” and felt discouraged each time I looked at what was currently on the market.

Needless to say, I grew tired of my daily commute to work and filled up on gas so often that I'm convinced I'm now a regular at Sheetz. With no other choice but to suck it up, I slowly lost patience for things that had once been fixtures in my daily routine. The gym became a foreign concept to me; I began losing faith in my ability to cook for myself...or at least cook any sort of proper meal; Half un-packed suitcases and duffel bags from weekend trips constantly cluttered the floor of my bedroom.

Living at home since graduating has been a luxury, and I feel so privileged to have such a loving, healthy relationship with my family. However there is something to be said about the transition from college and into true “adulthood” while living in your childhood home.

Personally I found there to be a clash between longing for my youth - being taken care of, cleaned up after, cooked for, etc. - and wanting independence. Once I started working and had to give up eight hours (plus around two for the drive) of my day, I realized that there was only so much that I had left to give back at home. As someone who actually genuinely likes hanging out with my family, I frequently felt guilty when I chose to use those few remaining hours for myself.

And as frustrated people do sometimes, there’d be moments where I lashed out at my dad, mom, whoever...when I got overwhelmed. It wasn’t my intention to be difficult, but I knew deep down that my early twenties - before truly settling down and even thinking about starting a family - were possibly the only years of my life that I would be able to put myself and my personal/professional goals first.

Just when it felt like all hope was lost, I found this unique little apartment building off of Route 309 - which is how I often drove to work each morning. Throughout my apartment search, I had become acquainted with all different types of layouts and styles, but one feature that really caught my eye was exposed brick. Somehow the stars aligned and I was able to get an appointment to see an available unit, brick walls and all, at this property just 35 minutes from my house, and a whopping 17 minutes from my office.

My dad came with me to see it one morning, and we met the landlord there together. Despite my dad's warning about showing too much excitement, it was impossible to hide the smile on my face. I instantly fell in love and knew that it needed to be mine. The monthly rent was maybe a little more expensive than what was ideal, but definitely doable.

We saw the unit at 8:00 (right before I headed into work), and I think by 9:00 I was already working on the application once I sat down at my desk. I raved about the unit to my boss and co-workers, and was hopeful that everything would go my way after my dad agreed to be a co-signer.

In between planning where the couch would go and what color rug would best complement the brick, I got a call. Unfortunately as you may suspect, I didn’t get the apartment. The landlord seemed really genuine when she told me that they’d keep my information on file in case anything else opened up, but I had no idea of how long that would take, or if she’d follow through with it at all.

I pretty much stopped looking for any other apartment simply because I was exhausted and thought I had seen it all. I felt like a fool for letting myself get so excited in the first place, and vowed to maybe not show pictures to all of my friends, colleagues, and family members the next time I went to go see a place.

Some time passed before I randomly received a text one morning from that same landlord; she told me that a first-floor apartment in that same building would become available come early December. I confirmed that she still had my application, and she assured me that if I liked the unit, she wouldn’t show it to anyone else. It was mine if I wanted it.

And I guess that brings you pretty much up to speed with where I’m at now. I could mention the part about the master spreadsheet I created in the meantime: one where I recorded all the furniture and apartment essentials I already had, versus what I would need yet. I could sprinkle in details about how I shopped online and filled in the spreadsheet with URLs linking to items, complete with their specific color, price, and other helpful descriptors. I could talk about it in much more detail, but I'm afraid that a takeaway from this post is already that I plan far too much, way ahead of time, and often have my hopes crushed as a result (plus my family thought the spreadsheet was absolutely ridiculous).

My mom helped me go through the bins that had been sitting in our basement for years, ones that had been labelled for “Payton’s Future Apartment” or something of the sort, and other odds and ends that I had brought back from my apartments in college. I weighed the pros and cons of bringing my bed from my dad’s house versus my mom’s house, carefully thought about which items I wanted to include in my Christmas wish list, and designated which cabinet would hold the specific things needed in my kitchen.

Part of me feels like it all happened fast, yet there's another part of me that knows that it's been a long time coming. My dad has a funny way of being right, especially when I'd least like him to be. Yes I needed to be patient, but remain persistent, and all would work out just fine.

No amount of impending bills nor responsibility I now have to assume could dampen the pride and content I feel right now — a feeling that likely stems from the fact that I get to wake up to a beautiful brick wall every morning (I promise it's not as underwhelming as it sounds written out).