I spent the weekend apartment hunting, which was completely demoralizing. I’ve been in my current apartment for three and a half years, and it is cheap, cheap, cheap. But I have two roommates, who are not particularly neat, and I’m desperate to get my own place. In most cities, working people can afford to do this before the age of 35. OK, in New York City, most people can afford to do this before the age of 35, too, but not me. It’s only in the last year that I finally got a full time editorial job and paid off my credit card debt. Anyway, I decided that at last I would get a small studio or one bedroom in a quiet neighborhood in an outer borough—I wasn’t aiming for anything too desirable. It didn’t even have the have a laundry room, just be reasonably near a subway station and not disgusting, in a basement, or the size of a cubicle.
But even though I’m out of debt (I mean, except for my student loans, natch), I’m still poor, and I discovered that my budget had been very optimistic. For what I wanted to pay, I was eligible for very little. So I resigned myself to paying close to half my salary in rent, but even with that, I’ll be lucky to get a cramped fourth floor walkup studio.
I’m too old for this.
I’ve always hated August. When I was a kid, I think I had my first depressive episodes at the end of the summer. One August, every time I heard a plane overhead I was sure a nuclear war was about to start. I lived near two airports.
August is almost over, and I’ll find a place I can afford and be comfortable in eventually, it’s just that I have so little patience these days. I’m cranky and maladjusted and resentful. I don’t even cry. I just check my email and mope. And wait. For what, I don’t even know. To grow up, probably.