Living in a box.
I, for one, like apartment living. You might even say, I love it.
Many years ago, I had a house. Um…well it wasn’t mine, as I was told many, many times, but a house it was.
I took care of everything. From the lawn, trash, dog poop pickup, and the house maintenance. Oh, and I painted the inside, and the outside. Who’s stupid? This girl.
Anyhoodle, I got out of that situation many years later, in a most hasty fashion.
Since then, I’ve had an apartment in a “secure” building on the other side of town.
I love it here. If something breaks, I call the apartment manager. If I need service of any kind, I call the apartment manager. Hell, if I want to chat, I call the apartment manager! She is fantastic.
No lawn to take care of, no painting the outside of the building, not six cans of trash full of beer bottles at the curb every week. I used to hide from the trash man.
Now I drink cans;)
Personally, I don’t see any reason to own a home. I don’t have kids. I’m completely estranged from most of my family. What happens when I die? Who would take care of the estate? No one.
I certainly wouldn’t burden Matt-Man with something like that. Nor would he burden me. I do wish I had a lawn for him to putter in, as he loves it so, but I don’t.
I would really like to have a two bedroom place one day. I’d like to have a space for an office, or a studio if you will. A spot for all the equipment we’d one day like to have. Oh, and a futon. I’ve always wanted a futon. I think I just like to say futon.
It’s nice here (don’t look in the closets). It’s not completely scrubbed, but it’s clean, and neat. Matt-Man likes it here. We are comfortable, and happy.
It may be small, and not “ours”, but it’s home.
That is what matters. Home.