I don’t know much about zodiac signs, but I can say that I’m a true Pisces; creative, free-spirited, and a big dreamer. As an only child, you have two options in life; convince your mom to get knocked up again or create a world of make believe. Since my mom was almost a senior citizen when she had me, the latter option was chosen for me. Many of my days were spent spinning my globe mentally floating away to whatever country my finger fell on or playing MASH fantasizing about my life with a husband, kids, and our mansion. Though I lived in my own universe, I somehow managed to become a practical dreamer.
When Mae Jemison went to space, every girl in my school decided that was their life dream. I only got as far as saying that I wanted to take a trip to Cape Canaveral to watch a lift off some day. From elementary school until now, that pattern continued. People often say that I sell myself short or I’m not reaching high enough, but I never needed the stars as long as there was a beach.
One of my biggest dreams growing up was getting my very own brownstone apartment in Bed-Stuy. I was obsessed with Spike Lee films as a child and I wanted to be just like Joie Lee. She was cool, fashionable, creative, and had a sunny apartment with a high stoop. That was it. THAT was my dream. I moved to New York in 2007, but with the absurd rent costs and my barely there income, I had all forgotten about the life I so feverishly dreamed of. In true Pisces fashion, I was floating down life’s creek aimlessly until I was pushed out of my cozy inner tube. My roommate got engaged and I needed to find a new place to live QUICK.
In that moment, I saw myself living the life of Nola Darling (with less men…ok, ok maybe two, a girl needs options) and Joie Lee like I had seen in films. If you know anything about NYC real estate, you know it’s a total crapshoot. Apartments are like wedding gowns, when you find the one, you just KNOW. Ten jazillion hours spent on Craigslist with viewing after viewing and still no luck. Fatigued and on the verge of just setting up shop on a friend’s couch, I found it.
The listing said third floor, but standing outside from the street, the top floor looked like an attic with two chicklet sized windows. Three flights of stairs and a couple eyerolls later, I walked in and I swear I heard the angels hit a 13-part harmony. The sun kissed every square inch of the apartment. I fingered the jewel-toned tiles of the fireplace incessantly. I heard birds outside singing a lullaby when in reality they were probably shrieking whilst being mangled by a bodega cat. Nevertheless, I had found it. Check was written and the lease was signed. My practical dream had been realized.
My first night in my very own apartment was surreal. I vacillated between shrieking from delight and dancing around so I’m sure my downstairs neighbors (still) think I’m a meth head. I woke up the next morning feeling like I had stepped into my dream. The smell of bacon wafting in the air snapped me out of my haze.
I was finally here.
*editor’s note: the picture is of my actual apartment. i looooove interior design, so feel email for any deco needs!