Staying put

I arrived home late Sunday night to an envelope hanging from the binder-clip-hanging-from-a-nail-hammered-into-my-door-frame contraption my apartment complex calls a mailbox. It had my apartment number scrawled across the front, and the logo of the apartment management company in the top left corner. My initial thoughts went something like, "I paid my rent, didn't I? I did! Do they evict people via envelopes? Dear God, I can't move back to Texas". Yeah, paranoid much, Lauren?! The envelope did not, in fact, contain an eviction notice, but rather an invitation to re-up my lease. Whew! I was relieved for two whole minutes. And then the panic set in.

As is standard in these situations, the cheapest (read: only affordable) option for re-upping requires that I sign yet another 12-month lease. And this realization is what brings me to my current panicked state. In this state, a year-long commitment might as well be a decade-long commitment, and my mind goes crazy with all the possibilities of all the things that might come up in such a vast period of time that might make me wish I wasn't tied down to this 700 square foot apartment in Lakewood, Colorado. I start to think thoughts about how I'm living in the suburbs of North America - Is this seriously where I want to be?! Am I okay being that person?! - thoughts about how I could be saving boatloads of money if I didn't insist on living alone in a place that offers luxuries like 24-hour maintenance and a fitness center and two (two!) hot tubs. And, inevitably, I started fantasizing about returning to South Africa or working on a cattle ranch or inhabiting one of the other countless worlds I'm convinced I'd rather be in. Thus, I spun... out... of... control...

And yet. I have school loans, and a car payment, and *ahem* other debt I'd rather not discuss. And a coffee habit and a thrift-store t-shirt fetish to fund. And 11.7 miles from aforementioned suburban apartment is a job that (almost) pays me enough to keep my head above water in the "finances" area. So there's that.

Also, there's something small and still in me suggesting that maybe I need to stay put for a while. I moved from Texas when I was 17, went to South Africa-back-to-Texas-for-a-few-months-then-back-to-South-Africa-again, then after a few more very enlightening months in Texas (read: I decided once-and-for-all I would never ever live in Texas again), moved to New York City. Two apartments in midtown Manhattan, a summer in a basement in Queens, an apartment in Brooklyn, one in Jersey City, a summer back in Texas (oops), and then a year in the Bronx rounded out my college years. Then came the "crap-I-have-no-other-options" nine months in Texas (double oops) before I managed to get myself to Denver. Where I wanted to be. Where life got rich and sweet and yet! - 11 months later I'm balking at the idea of another year in this place. The first time since I graduated high school that I don't have to move after a year and I'm hesitating?!

The still small thing is forceful, suggesting that maybe I have a *slightly* unhealthy restlessness thing going on. Maybe I don't know what it looks like to find rhythm, pattern, ease, and contentment in staying put... in not moving. Maybe that scares the ish out of me. Maybe I'm afraid more than one year in the same place will cause me to forget what I ultimately want... that the images of the ideal will fade behind the fog of comfort and familiarity. And if they do, that I’ll doubt they were ever real in the first place.

Basically I'm a big ole' scaredy cat who needs to take a deep breath, grab a pen, and sign the damn lease...

*gulp* Okay, yes, but maybe not right now...