I have never been good at change. Ask my mother, she will inevitably tell you the story of when I was born. Between my death stares thrown her way and the screams well beyond the lung capacity of any newborn, it became clear I had been very comfortable where I was, so if you could kindly put me back, it would be much appreciated, thank you very much.
The thing about the American educational system is that if you go to school and then to college, you will be forced to make changes every year. You change classes, grades, teachers, friends, sports, clubs, instruments, and eventually, the actual schools themselves (of course, once they start charging obscene amounts of money for you to be there, you really have to start thinking about the monetary value of change, and how much are you really willing to spend). Maybe you don’t like change, maybe you thrive on it, but it’s there. The opportunity to “mix it up” is built right in. Then, you hit the real world.
I graduated college at the age of twenty-one. Four days after graduation, I got in my car and drove from Maine to California, where three friends and a new apartment awaited me. Fresh off sixteen years of school and twenty one years of change, I was ready. We painted, bought furniture, got jobs, and twelve months later, we moved. Apparently we had become so used to the rhythm of “only one year for one place” we followed if, even if there was little reason. We had made a home, developed relationships with our employers, and befriended the local coffee shop owners, but we didn’t think twice when our lease was up, and we starting hunting for cardboard boxes.
Truth be told, California was never the place for me. It was too ... not the East Coast. So, I took advantage of my annual move, and went back to New York. Where I stayed. And where I am now. After my first twelve months, I almost freaked out because I wasn’t moving. My ADD cultural psyche was so used to never settling down or getting too comfortable that I got nervous signing another lease. I panicked I was growing complacent. I worried about opportunities I was missing.
Even now, after I’ve lived in the same apartment for almost three years, I worry. I wonder when I will calm down and feel settled. Actually, my roommate is even worse than I am. He refuses to paint the walls because he thinks “we’ll just be moving out and have to paint them over.” Never mind that we’ve been in the apartment for thirty months, he thinks it will be too much effort, too much of a commitment. So, thanks to him, I still have beige-y, off-white walls and probably will until one of us gets married (and if you met us, you would know there is no danger of that happening any time soon).
Sometimes I still panic and scour Craigslist, looking for the next available apartment, and its move-in date, and sometimes I enjoy not having to fill out “change of address” forms all the time. It’s a delicate balance—one I don’t know if I will ever truly grasp. I guess the wonder of it all, and wisdom I will one day happen upon is—how do you know when to unpack and paint your walls?
