I’m trying something new today and not blogging about a recipe. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a while, but it’s hard to pin down that perfect topic, or at least the words to go along with the topic.
I woke up annoyingly and unnecessarily early this morning, and not by my choosing. So early, that by 10 minutes till 9:00, I have made breakfast (another bagel split with my pal, but this morning we added an over easy egg on top of the Neufchatel and garlicky goodness), had an extra cup of coffee, and watched my fill of the Ghost Whisperer (instant Netflix has given me the joy of filling my desire for bad television at the push of a button). Which has led me here, to blog, since more sleep is no longer an option. Before I had given up all hope of falling back asleep, when I was still under the weight of two duvets and one of Tex’s pillows on top of my face, I found myself fantasizing about waking up in an airy, daylight-filled, old, New York apartment, with a window sill just wide enough for me to sit on while I rest my bunny slippers on the fire escape and drink my coffee. This apartment would be at least five floors up with a wide, dark wooden stairway in the hall that looks almost too grand for the building (I was debating on whether or not I would be miserable without an elevator. While it would be beneficial when bringing up groceries and taking Elizabeth out for a walk, or three, a day, I also can’t help but think of the great workout I would get! A built-in Stairmaster!). The kitchen would be small, probably too small, but it would be functional and have a cozy bay window for a small table and two chairs. I would paint the kitchen yellow and fill it with citrus colored accents. Throughout the rest of the apartment the windows would be tall and though we would settle on a one bedroom, we would have space for at least one desk/office set up. Be it an extra closet or a tiny extra room filled with windows (I had this once and it was perfect). The bathroom would be bright and refreshing, and most importantly, not grimy or damp.
Don’t get me wrong, I am happy wherever there is my pal and chunky blonde dog to come home to and I love our house in Decatur–big back yard, cozy, quiet, green; but there is a part of me that will always want to live in NYC. Maybe because I never have. The few times I have been were fun and filled with a perfect balance of real New York and must-see tourist spots. It’s quite possible that if we do ever get the chance to live there that I may hate it and that my love of this city will have been falsely based on far too many Sex and the City reruns and romantic comedies where the heroine publicist/magazine editor/fashion designer/ad exec lives in the gorgeous, yet quaint apartment that, in reality, she could never afford. You know what, though? I don’t want to think about that now. I want to think about us having a life, farther north and sans car, and loving it.
Images via Apartment Therapy, Pinterest, and Google