In the true essence of Hannah Tool, I have completely upended my entire life in the past week. I’ve moved everything I own from an apartment and into a storage unit, then from that storage unit to a different one. Myself and these two
(Well, I’m crashing on the floor. The beasties are crashing on the shelves, the bathroom counter, and crammed into impossibly small spaces between closet doors and bicycles.)Rare are the individuals who will allow a train-wreck of a girl and her two yowling feline life-mates to inhabit their living room in an interim of quasi-homelessness. Their willingness to open their home to me and my self-inflicted disaster has made me face a painful truth about myself: I need to get, and keep, my shit together.
I’ve successfully maintained a consistently–and almost unmanageable– storm of chaos within my personal sphere for most of the years I’ve been in charge of my own life. After all, the ideology that staying frazzled staves off potential vapidity has been a benchmark of my approach to living. And no one likes a vapid female; or, at least, no one who isn’t spray-tanned, over-gelled and unaware that wife-beaters are, in fact, NOT shirts in-and-of-themselves.
Still, as satisfying as it (sort of) is to constantly throw my life in a blender with no lid, and then act surprised when the contents get thrown all over the walls, it would really be nice to amalgamate at least a couple parts of my life into a consistent format.
In the past twelve months I moved half as many times. And for a collective seven weeks therein, I’ve been displaced. Not homeless, per se, but without a home. And the thrill of knowing that at some unknown point in the future– whether it’s a week, two months, or half a year– I’ll have to pick everything up and take it with me somewhere else is very much wearing off.
This past Monday, I signed my first real lease. Within it is the agreement that I can not sublet my apartment for the full 12-month term of the contract. My nomadic days, it seems, have come to a potential close.
I’ve been hesitant to commit to a housing situation since the very onset of my adulthood. I thought these reservations were founded in a logical belief that I’m too young to tie myself to anything as tangible as a place, when my life has the potential to turn and run away from me at any moment. But when I signed away my freedom to escape a certain four walls just three days ago, a prodigious weight lifted from my shoulders.
Historically, Hannah Tool is world champion of convincing herself that something is for the best when– glaringly– it is an inevitable detriment. When I left college last year, it was with the steadfast belief that the universe was in the palm of my hot little hand. It only took a couple weeks to realize that I was ill-prepared for a Big Girl Life; however, it’s taken me almost a year to actually do something about it.
I made a pact with myself at the beginning of June that I’d write something with at least a glimmer of quality every day. I didn’t follow through. At the end of June, I reaffirmed that commitment to myself for July. Yet here it is, the fifth day of that month, and I’ve yet to write a single word.
The problem is not that I broke a promise I made to myself; it’s that I found it prudent to make such an unrealistic commitment in the first place. It was a subconscious set-up: added stress that I could tuck into the laundry pile and stare at, pretending there was just too much to ever start taking care of.
So, this weekend, I’m going to move into an apartment. And stay there, for a whole year. And I’m not going to make a plan outside of that, just like I’m not going to outline ridiculous intentions for my blog.
It’s time to be realistic. And just relax.