Second Guess

On Wednesday, I threw a few orphaned items into my trunk to deliver to the new apartment. I was due at a dinner with a few friends and figured I would stop by since the two stops were in the neighborhood. Unspoken rule: a trip out the door must involve at least two stops.

Hillcrest is littered with chic, expensive restaurants with names like Bite and Chow. Our destination was Dish, which specializes in traditional, organic fare served up in large porcelain bowls. I ordered the penne with grilled chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, and broccoli. Dinner was tasty and the company even better, but I emerged exhausted. Carb overload would be one excuse, but I've been getting less sleep than usual and was ready to burrow into bed. Instead I prodded myself in the direction of the studio. It was only 5 blocks down the road.

My parking spot was lit with a halo of light. Parking anywhere in the neighborhood is tricky, and an assigned spot is gold. I pulled into the spot that had sold me on the apartment and grabbed the brown ceramic pot and coat hooks in one arm while hoisting the hiking boots and backpack on my other shoulder. Unspoken rule: deliveries from the car must take only one trip (unless pain is involved, and even then, some pain can be overlooked).

The complex is gated and the apartments surround an impressive jungle of well-kept plants. An elephant ear or palm will occasionally brush my arm or leg as I'm walking to my front door. With the amount of attention paid to the garden, it is easy to imagine the gates are meant to protect it, rather than the tenants. The complex feels safe though. My windows had even been open since I first toured the complex last week. The storm gate opened with a loud creak. I stepped inside and stopped.

Something was not right. The apartment was small. Really small. The back wall returned my stare. It was the end to my domain and it was right in front of my face. Could this really be my new home? I let out a heavy breath and carried my delivery to the back closet. My shoes squeaked on the linoleum. I thought about the tile floors in my old apartment--oh, that beautiful new tile! Not this cheap, scuffed, sorry excuse for flooring. I dropped my items on the heavily and immediately held my breath. A noise complaint the day after taking the apartment would not be a good start. The walls were thin enough. I glared at them spitefully.

I tip-toed back to the main room and looked around. I could take in the entire room while standing in the kitchen. I suddenly wondered if my measurements had been wrong, because the it looked as though nothing would fit in it. A feeling of sadness overwhelmed me. What have I done? The question has dwindled on the periphery of my consciousness for the past three weeks. Now it had became a full-fledged consideration, standing in the room before me, demanding an answer. I pursed my lips and ducked out the open front door, locking it behind me. Unspoken rule: when faced with doubt, run.

If this was a mistake, it was be too late. I've sold the majority of my furniture, given up the cash, signed on the dotted line. No backing out now, I would just have to make it work. I knew the exhaustion was playing a big part in my mood, but I couldn't help but feel a little depressed. Driving back, I called my boyfriend, Mike, and expressed my frustrations. He was noticeably distressed in hearing me worry. He has been worried about the move, worried that I'll be unhappy. Hearing his voice immediately resolved a lot of my doubt. After all, he is a large part of why I'm moving in the first place. My natural reaction to his worry was to form an immediate resolve, to reassure him that it was the exhaustion and stress of the week talking and that I'd be fine. This is a good move for me, I told him. I took a few breaths after we'd hung up. My confidence was trickling back.

As I tumbled into bed, I realized it's probably going to take a bit more than just an optimistic attitude to reverse years of conditioning. My new rules: rely on those close to you and have a plan.