Introverts Part 2: Housing
Where can I putz?
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This is a continuation of “Introverts Part 1: Definitions.”
When I arrived in New York in 2010, a fantastic friend - Lindsay White - allowed me to stay on her couch for nearly three weeks while I got settled. Then, I moved into a sublet for about a month and a half, with two relative strangers, before getting a place of my own. It wasn’t my “own,” though. In my first actual New York apartment, I lived with between two and three roommates on any given day. We lovingly referred to that apartment as the DECC Hotel. “DECC” stood for David Elizabeth Courtney Catie (the OG roomies/my besties and me - duh). “Hotel” because there was a seemingly never-ending rotation of people either staying with us or subletting from one of us while we were gigging as non-eq actors regionally. The turnover was high. It was so high that there is a 17.8% chance you stayed with us at some point between 2010-2013.
The DECC Hotel was a great apartment. It was on the top floor of a four-floor building in Astoria, Queens. There were three sets of sliding glass doors in the kitchen/living room that opened to the outdoor space. It had sunshine and light, and we spent a lot of time on the roof. Sure, my room could barely fit a full-sized bed, but it was still a great little apartment. The years we lived there gave me some of the fondest memories I have, and I really wouldn’t trade them for any other experience.
Still, at times it was pretty hard for me to live with so many people and even harder to live with so many new people. With so many roommates, there was rarely space to exist in the way that I needed to. To recharge in the way that I needed to. While living at the DECC Hotel, I often couldn’t putz at all because there would be a new person in the living room that I felt a need to have small talk of some sort with. My god, it still gives me the heebies. Can you imagine what it’s like to have small talk in one’s own home? It’s obscene in concept, and it was debilitatingly exhausting on every level in practice. Small talk in the home like that is the primary reason I know I’ll never rent out a room in my home on Airbnb. Not that I have an extra room to rent, but if/when I ever do, I’m not doing it. I do not have the emotional stamina to ask another hairdresser from Des Moines about her trip to see the Rockettes and feign interest when she tells me about how she almost saw Chicago, but decided to take a horse and buggy ride around central park, then went to Magnolia, and saw a “crazy guy” who asked for money on the train. I’ve done it. I’ve done it multiple times. I’m not doing it again. Home is supposed to be where things are comfortable and easy and where one can move about with abandon. Small talk in the home is the opposite of abandon; it is closer to prison. So, I’m sorry, but next time you’re looking to rent, please don’t keep your eyes out for a cute and freshly renovated apartment to pop up next to my stunning face and the words “Super Host.” I’m not doing that shit, and you can’t convince me otherwise.
When our lease ended in 2013, I moved into a studio apartment just a few blocks down the road and hoped for the best. Sure, I hated the rotating roomie sitch, but could I really live alone in New York City? I’d had a cold and moldy one-bedroom apartment for the last year and a half of college, but this would be my first time as a functioning adult, and I didn’t know what to expect. I was a little nervous. I was nostalgic for all the magic and memories I’d made with the girls at the DECC Hotel. I was afraid I’d be frightened or lonely. But something in me knew that it was the right move, and I made the jump.
The studio changed my life. Having my own space made me feel like a giant. After work waiting tables, auditioning, and writing, I would be so gassed that I’d want nothing more than to go home and, as my mother would say, “putz around the house” and living alone, I could do just that! I could actually putz. Putzing was nearly impossible at the DECC Hotel because of all the humans and small talk, but I could putz any time I wanted at my studio. I’d Swiffer the floors two or three times a day, just putzin’ around like it was going out of style. I’d organize papers, then move things around on the shelves. I’d lay on the bed and stare for long periods, letting myself turn off while awake. I was living a dream. I adapted to living alone beautifully.
Living alone in the studio worked wonders for my #adulting (read: helped me grow up), emotional health, sex life, and overall energy. I was sleeping better, eating better, and getting more exercise. I felt more like an individual and found that even my big-picture professional goals were coming more and more into focus. The simplest of days stood out as almost euphoric.
One particular day, the windows were open, I listened to music and spritzed some good-smelling fabric spray, and it clicked. I didn’t just prefer alone time; I truly needed alone time to function at my best. Those hours putzing around the house were taking my cartoon odometer from Empty, bringing it back up to Full, and doing it fast.
Relative solitude. It was like discovering the fountain of youth. A diagnosable, referencable, reliable tool that I could use to improve my quality of life.
But! Because I am nothing if not a perfect example of someone with an inner saboteur, I only lived in that personal Eden for about eight months. After that, I moved in with my then-boyfriend (and now-husband) Blaine…and his three other roommates in a four-bedroom/one-bathroom apartment in Harlem.
Introverts Part 3 will be published on Wednesday, October 13th.
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