I Don't Want to Die in This Box

I've lived only 4 places in my entire 36 years of life. My first place of residence was the house my parents rented, right after they were married. I don't remember much about that place besides hiding un-chewable bits of dinner under my dad's lazy boy, getting in trouble for eating weeds in the backyard, and my infatuation with our next door neighbor babysitter. Her name was Kristen.

The next home kept me safe and warm from the age of 6 into my early twenties. Here I received stitches inside my nasal cavity from trying to retrieve Boba Fett's Slave One ship from a rather high shelf, secured my first ever kiss with Tara "Bug Eyes" Ryan, had to explain the ass dents in the hood of my dad's '84 Reliant, and frequently clean soap from between my teeth while silently staring at my similarly punished sister.

I moved out of that house, with a friend for a year, only to return to save all the dollars I could, for the little wedding that couldn't. Then I bought my condo. I've been there eight years now. It's hard to keep track of how long, for some reason, but the lady keeps my time line straight. She might not resemble an elephant in any outward appearance kind of way, but the brain on that one ... she doesn't forget.

I love the outdoors. With that said, I never go hiking or camping. I just like knowing it's out there. In my place, I forget that sometimes. It's unfortunate but, lacking a balcony, I'm unable to enjoy even a simple breeze. The complex is surround by lush greens, in non winter months, but there is nothing tackier than sitting in a lawn chair in plain sight of 30 of your neighbors. I know, I've seen it.

It's taken me 8 years to find a small handful of good eats: an amazing Thai place (2 miles away) a good diner for breakfast (4 miles away) and a good Phoo place (8 miles away.) For a foodie, like myself, the variety is just not sufficient.

There is the bitchy condo board lady who, for some reason, has taken a liking to me in a very talkative manner, people that curse and yell when one of my dog's paws touches the grass, and I'm surrounded by lots of old people. Sad, old people.

Last week, an older resident was lost in our 70 unit building. I could hear him knocking on, what turned out to be another old guy's door, repeatedly muttering "They locked me out." Opening my door, I recognized him and knew he was on the correct floor, but that his place was on the east side of the building. I politely pointed him in the right direction, amid his protests, in an attempt to save him any embarrassment.

What I'm saying is that I like food, and people that are generally a decade younger or older than myself, and I'd like to live around some of those people and eat some of that food. So, I've decided to move into the city. Well, I decided that years ago. I just haven't done anything about it yet.

Yet is such a dangerous and vague word. It allows you to ignore the details, and just go on with life as is. Yet allows you to believe there is always a better time to accomplish your goals: I'm waiting to see if I get laid off, before I move. I'm going to wait till the summer, because no one will purchase my place in the winter. And lately: Let's wait till after the wedding, we've too much on our plates, without thinking about how to arrange the furniture to engage potential buyers properly. And then it will be winter again.

Part of me not only wants to move, but move out of state. Ya know, go on an adventure, explore the world, etc. It would have to be somewhere exciting, someplace that doesn't resemble Dayton, Ohio. I'm thinking the coasts. Somewhere with views a plenty to make up for the last 8 years of longingly staring at the drapery.

Moving would require some work be done on the place. After working such long days, saving the world as I do with my designs for latin floor bin headers and $30 foam core mounted album cover blow ups, it's hard to come home and want to do anything but relax. Any realtor is going to tell me I have to replace the closet doors and repaint the molding.

There I go again, making another excuse.