Bonheur d'Andrea

I'm alone again. Boxes have been unpacked (except some that were crammed unceremoniously into the closet at the end of Moving Day Two), my enormous new beast of a table now dominates my dining room, and all I hear are my fingers on the keys and the whirr of the fridge (I now own appliances! An apron must surely be next). Art has been hung, books (and more books, and yet more books) have been shelved, and when I look around at a space that is entirely mine I exhale with real, instinctual happiness. Not to disparage my former roommate in any way – my joy at living alone again has everything to do with me. My phone and internet have yet to be reconnected (I'm currently pilfering someone’s unsecured wifi), and the past few days of dropping out of range of everyone but myself were by this point very necessary. I need me right now. It’s been one hell of a semester, and the dust is still settling. I made it, and sitting amidst the genuine quiet I'm not entirely sure how I managed – or even if I did. I made a string of poor choices based on a laughable over-estimation of my capabilities and capacities. But this change of scenery… it’s a simple shift in perspective that I can already feel. I know that the newness will wear off and this will just become home, but that’s part of what I'm anticipating. I haven’t felt at home in a long time, and there’s something about this configuration of space, this neighbourhood, that’s already tugging at that part of my heart. Proximity to train tracks and waterways. The old warm wood permeating the apartment. The money set aside in lieu of painting, of a washer and dryer, of cable, of high-speed internet, for a new canine best friend. I miss Isis every day, and the past few months especially. Dogs bring a certain kind of companionship made up of unconditional love and unrelenting get-outsideness that you forget is essential until you need it most. The SPCA is near the top of my to-do list, after a bathmat and before a paper-towel holder.