I’m not the kind of person who likes to have Master Plans. It’s not that I don’t like a good plan, I just know whenever I shake my fist at the sky and say, “I *will* do (insert action item here),” The Universe laughs, pats my head condescendingly, and says, “Isn’t THAT special.” Come to think of it, The Universe sounds a lot like the Church Lady from the old SNL skit, which is neither here nor there.

Because my plans so rarely work out as according to, well, my plans, I’m used to shrugging my shoulders, cursing a little, and saying dramatically, “Come what may,” or, to be honest, it’s more like, “whateves.”

Instead, I grit my teeth, throw shit at the wall, and see what sticks. And I wonder how I broke two teeth in the span of six months. Here I was thinking it was “stress,” but we all know it was the rocks I’ve been gargling.

Wait, what?

MOVING ON.

Or, I should say, EVENTUALLY moving on, because really, that’s what Life in Limbo means: you duck, cover, and hope that this time, you’re the pigeon and NOT the statue, and tell yourself that if you’re the statue, that pigeon shit on your head makes a LOVELY accessory, isn’t THAT special?

I’d been planning to move into my shoebox apartment, of which I am extremely proud because it’s MY awesome dorm room, October 13. I’d figured that giving myself the opportunity to find things like oh, JOBS and DRINKING glasses might be good, because, hey, drinking water from champagne glasses sounds a lot more refined in theory than in practice. Kinda – but not really – like communism.

I’d slowly begun packing my things, realizing that I’d been in FAR too many weddings, what with the sheer number of black high heeled shoes I own, labeling them all “fragile” (FRA-GEE-LAE) just to confuse myself later on, because hey, moving sucks – gotta get your kicks where you can. If I don’t own a magnificent leg lamp, the best I can do is pretend that one might be in one of the boxes I’ve packed.

limboland

I do not, in fact, own this. However, THAT DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T PRETEND.

Late last week, the apartment company called and told me the original apartment in which I was going to be moving into wasn’t going to be vacant any longer - blah, blah, blah owners staying blah blah blah – but that I’d be able to have another apartment. Did I still want to keep my move-in date October 13?

The answer was, of course, a resounding NO.

Not because it would be terrible to stay here a couple more weeks, not because I was quite ready to move, not that I actually owned glasses yet (SOON!), but because it was time. Living in my home, which I’d spent a hell of a lot of the past (counts on fingers) LOT of years, is just a reminder of what’s over. And while I may loathe goodbyes, it’s time for me to pack my happy ass up and move on down the road.

I told the apartment people I’d be ready to move by the end of September, because, well, I am. Days later, I’m still waiting to hear back if my NEW apartment will be ready by this time. I know apartment people are busy, and while I’ll usually use my patented, “stalk you until you tell me what I need to know – good or bad,” these are the people I’ll be renting from. As such, it’s probably a better idea NOT to piss them off or come across as “that crazy chick who calls every five minutes.”

So I wait. I pack, hoping I’m not going to be wearing the same outfit for the next 4 weeks, and I plan ahead, even while The Universe giggles in my direction.

While I wait, I play with this, which is pretty much window shopping for me (especially since they give away cool shit for free), while I wait.


And I research how to live on my own, how to cut costs, and what I can do to ensure that I don’t fall on my ass too hard. Learning how to live frugally? Kinda awesome.

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