Although I have already put down a deposit on a small one bedroom on the “quiet side” of Santa Clara (and so am aware of the actual size of my new abode), when I daydream about what it will be like living there, space limitations are not an issue.
Because it is my daydream, the living room is extensive, colorful (but not in a chaotic way) and tastefully decorated with simple artifacts. The kitchen is the same size as the living room, if not bigger, and permeates with a magnificent golden glow which is at once inviting and secure. It will have the feeling that places that hang “Safe Place” signs in the windows will wish they had and twice over. There will be a lovely, but small, garden in the back with just enough foliage that it should never look unruly and a small table with rustic chairs on which one may sip a cool beverage in the evening twilight.
I allow myself to dream about how it will soon be living alone and the daydreaming has become much more frequent and vivid. Any emtpy time where I am not required to think about one thing or the other somehow becomes occupied with thoughts of the greatness of living alone in one’s own place. Now it has become so detailed that I catch myself thinking about what I will wear when living alone.
The daydreams consist of envisioning one of the following activities or situations (and sometimes, two or more of the following, but always in different combinations):
-Hanging out in short shorts (specifically, a light blue pair that are not indecently short but too short to be worn comfortably in the presence of roommates and which quite possibly exceed the comfort level of all other bottom-half garments I own).
-Hanging out in short shorts on my couch in front of the TV with my laptop on my lap, with perhaps a pashmina or other soft material around my shoulders. And while I’m there, I’ll be able to do whatever I want to do, even watch TV with my mouth hanging open. And all the while, I can do it without worrying that someone else wants to watch something else and I won’t have to listen to boys talking about their relations with girls or about the disbelief of how much coke was done at such and such party or worry that if I say I don’t want to go to a bar at 11 o’clock on a Wednesday night I will be looked upon unfavorably.
-Making rice krispy treats that will not be shared with potheads with a bad case of the munchies.
-Opening the fridge in the morning and realizing that everything in it that was there the night before was not eaten in a drunken haze while I was alseep and the bruschetta covered in plastic wrap I made for the company potluck the next day will not have been rummaged through and devoured prematurely.
-Working on touching my toes and overall flexibility on the living room floor, which will be beer-stain free, while watching re-runs of bad reality TV.
-Having a Brita water filter in the fridge, always filled with water.
There is more, but I’m afraid I might jinx it all. After all, Irene could be right, it would be just my luck to move into a place inhabited by a ghost – a pot smoking, alcoholic, coke-head hipster-meathead-anti-social ghost.