Just over two years ago, I took a week off work so I could pack and move into my condo. I had closed on the condo a month earlier, but it needed some work, and I am a big believer in symbolism and milestones and new beginnings. And so I planned moving day for my birthday.
Since I came to LA at the tail end of 1999, I’d lived in six apartments in seven years. The condo was my statement — to myself and to the universe — that I was ready to call this place my home, that I was ready to settle down and fall into a comfortable rhythm with my life. I was single, and happily so. Life was good.
Three days before my birthday, when I should have been packing, I decided to spend a few hours at WorldCon. Heh. A few hours was all it took to meet Chris.
My condo is small, just 775 square feet, and it’s plummeted in value during the housing crisis. But damn, I love this place. I love the furniture and the colors. I love the high ceilings and the bamboo floors. I love that I can walk to restaurants and the bank and grocery store. I love that it’s mine, even when the pipes clog.
I love that I finally have a home… in my condo, and in Los Angeles.
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