It’s strange, this feeling.
It may come as quite a surprise to those of you who know me, but I actually hate change. Hate it with a passion. For all my bouncing from place to place, job to job, apartment to apartment, I actually really hate the unknown. I hate the end of something that, while not perfect, is comfortable.
This is my last week at my current job. And as much as everyone seems to be trying to make me do as much of their bitch work as they can before I leave, I am going to miss this place. It can be frustrating, but it’s comfortable.
My new job is exciting, but also frightening. It’s unknown. I’m looking forward to next Monday, when I start there, but I’m also terrified. What if I don’t like my new coworkers? What if the work is overwhelming, or perhaps worse, soul-suckingly boring?
I love taking pictures of my apartment when it’s overcast outside. The dim, gray light seems to suit my shabby little apartment well. The muted light seems to go well with this muted beauty from another era.
My apartment will never be slick or shiny or modern. I wouldn’t love it the way I do if it was. As much as I’d like to, I will never be able to gut and redo the kitchen (the white paint helped immensely, but it would still be nice to have cabinet doors that matched). I will never be able to take baths in this apartment, because the finish is coming off my tub and it grosses me out. But I love the cracked, wonky, yellowed tile that covers the bottom half of the bathroom walls.
I love the radiators with 100 years of paint on them. I love the transoms that have been painted over so many times that they’ll probably never open again. I love the wood floors that have been battered by water leaks and a century of use.
I love that my furniture doesn’t match, and is usually covered in cat hair (and my hair). It all fits my apartment (both in aesthetic and in size). I don’t want the giant overstuffed leather sectional and huge entertainment center with a TV that’s bigger than I am. I want my bookcases crammed full of books, my craft table overflowing with half-finished projects, my sofa covered in a faded tapestry coverlet, my kitchen table decorated with paint drips from all the times I’ve used it as a stand when painting my kitchen cabinets, my dresser with its scrapes and missing bits of its molding (but it’s from the 1920s and was less than $50 on Craigs List)
So yes, I am terrified of change. But there’s much (good) in my life that is staying the same. So I can deal with it, whatever the future brings.
In the end, I’ll just snuggle with my kitties in my shabby apartment. And it will all be good.