Charming, but single

So I haven’t had anything much to write about lately. I’ve been meeting myself coming and going with boring grown-up things and dating (or my complete lack of participation in anything resembling it) has been so far from my mind. Sure, I have a slew of witty stories about my family torturing me for being a spinster at the ripe age of 28, including how my mom joked with the insurance guy about needing a database of single men with the same insurance company so I could marry into a multi-line discount. I couldn’t make that up if I wanted to.

But eventually those stories get old. And I know because I live them. And they’re past old. They’re ancient.

I found a great new place with a great new landlord who was kind enough to give me a few free weeks to move. The place is smaller, but it has gorgeous wood floors and thick crown molding. It is surrounded by lovely houses and beautiful trees and a gorgeous neighborhood with uneven sidewalks that have already proven to be my downfall – walking down the street I faceplanted in my red patent heels, sending my work bag tumbling and ripping my cute pinstriped crops. Just four (or so) blocks from the park and a hop, skip and a jump from work, I feel as If everything is just perfect there.

And while simplifying my life to fit in my new, character-filled place seemed like a noble quest, I have found downsizing my stuff to be less fulfilling than I’d hoped. Most notably, this has been an exercise in reminding myself “this is why you still rent.” So many clothes I’ve barely worn, so much clutter of stuff I rarely use. Some people make major financial mistakes – buying cars they can’t afford, gambling away their money, opening too many credit cards. My biggest problem is in the small things and the dinners out. It is as if this year I woke up and said, “Hey, maybe I should save my money to invest it in real estate, yeah that would be a good idea.”

Sure, I say that in one breath and in the next I giggle about finally getting a new bed and replacing my hand-me-down one that is probably too gross for any human to have slept on and a new (albeit inexpensive) couch. I actually don’t feel bad about either of these purchases, as I let the knowledge of my goal of house-owning inform my purchases and picked pieces that would serve me well in a house later on. Plus, I’m sorry, I had a freaking spring poke through such a long time ago and I’m sure the time-tested “flipping the mattress” method wasn’t going to work forever.

The biggest change is the lack of closet space. I’m downsizing from a walk-in with built-in shoe shelf to one and a half small closets. Today I purchased an over-the-door shoe organizer and I was appalled to see that the largest one I could find held only 12 pairs of shoes. ONLY 12 PAIRS OF SHOES. (Unless you double up, which I can with some, but that makes the whole thing less shocking.)

Which lead to an awkward conversation with my Mom.

“Who has more than 12 pairs of shoes,” she asked incredulously. I looked down at the floor and shuffled back and forth, pleading the fifth. And she started needling me a little bit and asking me “How many pairs of shoes do you have, Imelda?” in this judgmental tone that should be reserved for more serious questions like, “How many men have you slept with?”

And I finally just said, “Enough.”

Because she can try to set me up with her co-workers and random guys she sees on the street. She can turn an unrelated situation into a discussion of my singleness. But no one – and I mean no one – questions the shoes.