It's That Time Again

It is hard to believe that my 15-month lease is nearly up. I left New York City and moved to Virginia for school on Dec. 1, 2008. The apartment management here requires 60 days' notice prior to lease termination. That's a bit much. I never plan that far ahead when it comes to moving.

Frequently, I don't know where I'm going to land until just a few weeks prior to the actual move.

But because the apartment management company here wanted a ludicrous sum of $1,960 (!!) to proceed with my lease on a month-to-month basis, I turned in my form on its Jan. 1st due date, expressing my intent to vacate. Reason provided: "TOO EXPENSIVE!"

That's all I wrote.

Geez, I can get a 2-bedroom in Brooklyn for $2K a month if I want. Granted, it wouldn't be Brooklyn Heights, where $2,000 only buys you a 500-sf studio and you're only one subway stop from Manhattan, but it would be within 30 minutes of New York City. I don't know why these D.C. metro area property management companies think that northern Virginia is such a happening place—maybe for family-oriented yuppy suburbanites, but not for me. I'm outta here.

After the last move, which came just seven months after the previous move, which came just 4.5 months after the move before that, I'd swore I'd slash my wrists before packing another box to move. But, deep down, I knew that sooner or later, I'd have to face the fact that it was time to move again.

This week I started packing for my 47th move. That total includes short-term corporate housing and other temp housing. If I subtract temp places that I lived in for 45 days or less, then this is officially move #41 or thereabouts. It's still about 20 moves too many for someone my age. Heck, for anyone of any age.

I've lived in ten different states and Bermuda. I've owned six homes (and still own the sixth one, which now has a renter in it who has failed to pay the rent on time six months out of seven). I've owned 15 cars (and am currently car-less). I've lost track of how many jobs I've had—and boyfriends, too—ha!

Poor Baby. Since I adopted her in November 2007, she's lived through one local and one long-distance move. This will be her third move with me.

It will be Jelly's first move. Right now Jelly is confused about what's going on, but she's not quite freaking out. I think Baby understands that all-too-familiar box taping sound, though, and she's not too happy about it.

I'm trying to keep things organized and am hiding most of the packed boxes so that it doesn't feel like moving. I'm not ready to live like that—not just yet.

I'm not sure where our new place will be. I just know that it'll be cheaper than the apartment I'm in now.