Homeless
Thursday, Oct. 4, 2001
Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only 30-year-old out there who doesn't own a home. (Okay, maybe I'm only 29, but close enough.)
And it's not that I don't own a home, I'm not even CLOSE to owning a home.
Is that bad?
Usually it doesn't bother me. I mean, honestly, I don't have to worry about yard stuff and maintenance stuff. There's a security guard available at weird hours and always a pot of coffee brewing in the mornings in the lobby.
There's a fitness facility in the building. Shit, there's even a tanning bed. I can drop my dry cleaning off on my way out the door in the am and pick it up when I get home at night. Best of all, the view from my living room is Pure City: buildings, the Mississippi. I can see into other people's apartment at night. The lights of the other buildings flicker and twinkle all evening long like a year-round Christmas tree. I love my view. I love all the city-dwellingness about it.
But it is an apartment.
And it's tiny. It has crappy carpets because we are the "icky dog owners who don't deserve the nice stuff while the people with kids get the hardwood and Berber" (which really pisses me off because, honestly, my dog makes way less of a mess than any child -- she doesn't even scratch or chew or shit in the house!).
Then there is the fact that we pay the equivalent of a mortgage each month -- probably more (does \$1,300/month sound right?). Oh -- and taxes -- can't forget those because not only do we not own a home, but we don't own ...err, I mean "have" children either so the state and country get to really lay it on us.
And, still... I can live with all that. It doesn't bother me too much. I think taxes are important. They pay for valuable services and that's the price we have to pay for living where we do. And the size thing isn't so much of an issue. It's just James and I. We don't need much. Okay, so we could use a little extra storage room. But I honestly don't want a castle. And I'm really annoyed by all the little yuppies with their oversized homes that amount to nothing more than a "my penis is bigger than yours" contest when you boil right down to it.
The problem is, we just don't own anything. We have our cars, but almost every person over 21 has one of those. And our cars aren't even that special. They're fine. They function. They get us to work. A necessity. There's no comfort we're seeking there. We don't see that we're lacking. But we don't see that we need anything more either.
I do feel like we're lacking the home department, though. I have a problem with our office slash guest bedroom slash bike-storage room that we can hardly move in. I have a problem that even though my dining room and living room are plenty big, they share space and are one of those typically-annoying "apartment" spaces that are combined and open. The TV's always in sight. The dining room table in plain view. Big room. Open room. You get the picture. You probably had one of these when you where, what, 23?
I suppose what bothers me most of all is that I'm getting to an age where all my friends now have homes and I don't. I'm starting to feel like an oddity. The anomaly. While my friends are gardening and painting and spending their weekends at the Home Depot, I'm still cooking or working out. There's no home dec for me to do. There are no projects other than cleaning that need finishing. There's nothing but me and James and our apartment which we have no ownership over whatsoever.
And, quite frankly, that makes me feel like a flunky. Like there's something wrong with me. What kind of thirty-year-old doesn't have a home? Doesn't have a lawn? Doesn't have friggin annuals and perennials to worry about?
It's not like we can't. It's not like we didn't plan to. We were going to buy a home here. That was the plan. We were saving. Are saving. But then the prices started getting so high (it's looking like \$200,000 for a starter home in the areas we want) and then James lost his job. And, frankly, buying a home is scary for me to even think about right now.
But then I talk to my friends. Or I read or hear about my peers. People my age, people younger than me who have homes. And not just homes, but BIG homes. Homey-homes full of furniture and appliances and plush carpet and whirlpool baths. They have the homes that I used to only associate with parents and grown-ups.
But my friends now are the grown-ups.
Except for me. Somewhere along the way, James and I got off the boat and I wonder if we'll ever be able to climb back on.
It's not about keeping up with the Jones.
Or maybe it is.
But while my city life is cool and convenient, I'm starting to wonder if it's a bit juvenile as well.
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Did you know that you can take Yoga classes from a New York studio live on the web via a web cam? How cool is that?
Although, I wonder how it works. I may have to try out it for only \$5.99 a class.
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I feel guilty, you know, going on and writing about silly stuff and spending my days making web sites and writing image specifications when so many lives were changed so irrevocably on Sept. 11th.
I become sad when I think about it. But my lack of tangible connections to the disaster allows me to distance myself easily. I start to go on with my life. But then I think, how thoughtless! How callous! Don't you remember that people died? That our country was horribly disfigured?
But then the phone rings or the dog whines and I do or answer what needs to be done. My thoughts drift and I think about the weekend's plans or my life's strategies.
I know that isn't wrong. I know it's normal.
But it makes me feel bad.
And sad.
And guilty.
There are probably thousands of people out there who would trade places with me right now. Right this minute. To have not lost a loved one. To have a warm place to sleep. To have food on the table.
I have a home. I have loved ones. And I can easily be distracted because as much as my life was affected, it really wasn't. You know?
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