I have had ten different addresses in five years.
Now, I’m no good at math but I’m pretty sure that means the longest place I’ve ever stayed (on average) is six months.
And for a girl who claims to hate change – when I was four I cried behind the garage because my father sold the white Jeep – that’s a lot of moving around.
To clarify, some of those changes kept me in the same city but that still meant boxes, back spasms from the heavy lifting, and serious pimple outbreaks from all the stressing out.
And that brings me to my big “internet announcement.” I moved. Again.
So make it eleven.
But this time, folks, it’s feeling a little more permanent.
Maybe it’s because I can’t stand another zit (and neither can my agent.) Maybe it’s the fact that if I have to lift my mattress again in six months I might spontaneously combust.
Or maybe it’s because I really LOVE my apartment. Because I do. I really do.
True, traffic noise can be a little loud, the closest food to me is a name I can’t pronounce, and the most legitimate business I’ve been able to find boasts “Magic Insurance.” (Which raises the question – magic how?)
I love it because it’s mine. And there are wood floors. And a GIANT kitchen. And it’s across the street from Noah.
And when I come home from a crazy day of auditions, work, rehearsal, or getting my hair dyed an obnoxious blond color (pictures soon…) it feels peaceful. It feels like it’s saying…
Hey, you look stressed. Have a martini and a warm shower. Lie on your bed and stay awhile.
And I say…
I think I will.