So somewhat recently I moved into this cute apartment in Lincoln Park. Except, it’s mostly only cute because it’s small, and theoretically small things are inherently cute. Theoretically.
That sounds a big pessimistic. I know. But some days I look around and lament the lack of a bedroom. Some days I can’t help but keep noticing the stains and scars on one corner of the ceiling and wall from when the place upstairs last leaked, purportedly last winter. Some days I look at my so-far lame attempts to put things I like on the walls and feel a bit like an interior decorating failure.
Some days I just sigh melodramatically: “Oh dear.”
But other days I know how lucky I am, that I can live as close to work downtown as I do with Chicago’s ridiculous living costs, and that my little studio is technically on the bigger side—for a city like Chicago, at least.
My family will be in town this weekend, and it’s just been some pretty good motivation to just finish.
And I’ve got a lot of questions. Is it normal to take this long to put things on the walls? Does it take other 20 somethings a few homes before they get better at all of this? How much weight can I place on what other people think when they walk in my door without it being pride? And is it possible to be completely happy with your home?
Eventually I’ll put some pictures up of a clean, decorated space. In the meantime, tell me your stories: what were your first homes like? Did a big, melodramatic “Oh, dear” ever come from your lips? And blank walls, how long did you let yours live?