Our Apartment Is Just Fine...For Now?

Yikes! It's been almost a month since I've written. I've been seriously consumed with getting my new wedding & portrait photography business off the ground...up and rolling...or is that off and rolling? Up off the ground? Well anyways, my wedding and portrait photography website is now online, and while I still have a HUGE list of things to do for my business, that was the first really big step in the right direction. (That and getting my sales tax license...which was pretty exciting too!)

Anyways, today's blog is about a response that I often receive, when I tell someone that my husband and I don't own a home (or rather, we don't live in a home the bank owns).  We live in an apartment, as many newlyweds do. It's a really nice one though. We don't have a pool or a gym or anything, but we have almost 1100 feet of space, two floors, and more storage space than I ever had to myself in any standalone house I lived in.  There's a nice patio with room for a little grill, a pair of chairs, and a dozen or so potted plants, and it's got a pleasant view of the little courtyard.  We only live 5 minutes away from Justin's workplace, and about 20 from mine. This apartment is such a perfect fit for us in so many ways, and about once a week I sigh to my darling husband, "I just love where we live." You can see some photos of our little nest here, and here's some that were taken before we moved in.

But usually when we tell people we're in an apartment, they say something like "well that's nice...for now." The last part is ominously intoned. And then they give a knowing look, as if they sympathize with our non-home-owning misery, they understand we are at this pathetic little place through which all newlyweds must suffer, and we should be encouraged that this, too, shall pass.

I Hate Exercise

I don't make a secret of the fact that I can't stand exercise. It makes me miserable, pure and simple.  I don't mind exercise in disguise, which some people call tennis or two-hand-touch-football or ultimate frisbee.  As long as I have something else to distract me, I can forget for a few moments that running, jumping and making my heart beat quicker aren't a) fun, or b) any fun at all.

What is it about exercising that so many people seem to like? Runners especially! Every runner I have ever seen seems to be having the most miserable time of their life. They are red and sweating, their clothes are hanging funny all over them, they can't get water in their mouth accurately, and they have horrible, painful grimaces on their face. When I ask runners how and why they run, they say "It's not so bad after you get used to it. It feels good to push yourself."  True, or I could take a razor blade and run it in between my toes every day, really push myself, and maybe eventually it won't hurt so badly.

I need to do some kind of physical activity though, but I feel so dumb that I have to think about it, and even dumber that I am considering paying for it by signing up for a gym membership. Feeling dumb makes me wish I lived some place, some time, where "exercise" wasn't ever thought of; I would just do my daily activities and get physical activity in the process. The idea of a gym is grimly amusing to me, for one because I would be paying money to be in misery. Plus, if you think about it, it's pretty silly to pay for something as free as exercise. And it's hard to get excited about hanging out in a shrine to a pampered, overfed, sedentary culture where most people (um, myself included) will accidentally get too fat if they don't go and burn it off on purpose.

There is also a great, delicious irony here.  So many of us have these easy-peasy lives now, with desk jobs and automatic everything. We are told these are improvements (and of course, many are). Except that now, because all our hard work is done by machines, we have to spend time in the gym on a different kind of machine, sweating away the extra time we've been given by technological and industrial advances.  It's hard to beat that for irony, eh?

My True Feelings About Lawn Care (late night imagination)

This might be a scary thing, but I'd like to give you a little glimpse into my late-night imagination. This is a little scene that has played itself out many a time as I fall asleep, and the story has many variants. But here is the basic idea.  The setting: we live in a pleasant neighborhood, own our first home, and consistently fail to mow the lawn.

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Someone knocks on the door.  It is the Head of the Neighborhood Association (HNA).

HNA: "Hello Mrs. Moore. I am here to remind you that your neighborhood contract requires you to care for your outside property so that its aesthetic properties will be satisfactory."

Me: "What do you mean?"

HNA:  "Mrs. Jones across the street, along with several other neighbors, have registered concerns that the grass in your yard is way too long, and smattered with weeds."

Me, still uncertain:  "We do take care of our yard. But, now that you mention it, I don't really care for Mrs. Jones' marigolds."  I start to walk across the street to register MY concerns with Mrs. Jones.

The H.N.A. follows me. "Mrs. Moore, you can't let weeds grow in your yard. You signed the covenant."

Me: "Yes, we said we'd take care of our property, and we do. What do you mean by weeds, anyways?"

HNA: "Ma'am, your lawn is smattered with dandelions and flanked by large bushy things."

Me: "Well, Mrs. Jones's porch is smattered with marigolds, and I don't like those. Can I sic you on her plants?"