Not one to take no for an answer, for months I contacted the manager. And, for months, I continued to lose out.
To whom? To the tenant that was already living in the building, in a unit that I will call Tiny Tina. People were moving into Tiny Tina, and when the newly renovated apartments became available, they got first dibs.
But then it happened. Tiny Tina became available.
Tiny Tina was the smallest, cheapest apartment in the building, and she was not renovated. Not even close. She looked like she hadn’t been touched since the building was built in 1969. She was petite, with a ¾ bath (meaning: shower, no bathtub, though a girlfriend who came by insisted that the little awkward square that I had to step into to shower was, indeed, a bathtub), a kitchenette (burners, no stove, dorm size fridge, though the building manager added another small, but technically full-size fridge, which took up a tenth of the entire apartment — much needed real estate in the less than 300 square foot space), and no dishwasher.
I hadn’t even lived in a Tiny Tina directly after college.
But, hey, I could do it! How long could it possibly take for one of those new and improved units to pop-up? It seemed like one was coming available every month.
Yes, Tiny Tina was small, but I’d done small! I’d lived in London. And you don’t know small until you’ve seen London small. I’d done a dorm-sized fridge as a legitimate 30-something adult. As a matter of fact, those were standard across the pond. Actually, I quite enjoyed my thrice weekly walks to the grocer.
It’s not like I had to find a place to fit my furniture. I had no furniture! I gave it all away when I left England. Oh yes! I could do this. I would do this. I would rock this so hard that my amazing, cozy, cool-as-hell petite princessa of an apartment would be featured as one of the much-admired “small spaces” of ApartmentTherapy.com.
And how long would I be there? Three months? Four months, tops? I could live anywhere for four months, tops!
… Turns out — no, I cannot.
Eight months later, I wanted to cry whenever I entered my home. Basically, I felt like I lived in a messy, cluttered, storage unit that people routinely cooked in.