Sometimes it’s funny how time passes so quickly without you even being aware of it.
Deep, I know.
But it struck me the other day that I’ve officially been in my apartment now for over a year. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a big deal, and, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not. But this the longest I’ve lived in any one place outside of my parents’ house.
In college I went from dorm to apartment to study abroad to new apartment. After college, I lived for a year in Arlington. And as each lease approached its end, I found myself dreading the inevitable packing, discarding, oh-shit-I-forgot-about-that-ing, loading and, of course, eventual unpacking.
So this year I’m planting. I’m here. I’m happy. I’m comfortable.
I’m not ruling out the possibility of moving in the future (yay month-to-month lease!), but I’m also not afraid of investing in the place, because I know I’m not about to cut and run.
Crazy. I’m almost like a real grown-up. When did that happen?