Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Eleven month itch

I have a theory, however warped it may sound. That you can never be completely ‘in love’ with the place you rent. It has to have something amiss, something that ‘can do better’, something that makes you feel like you are in transition. Because 11 months later, when you realise it doesn’t have long-term potential, you have to be able to get up and go. It’s like the guy you can date, but not really marry.

At least the theory has helped me make transitions easily. I have moved 14 abodes in my humble lifetime, six of which have been as a single woman living on her own—I inhabited each one of them, including my hostel pads, with an aesthetic and an individuality they deserved. But when I knew that it wasn’t mine to keep, I had no trouble moving on to the next one.

Reason why I am quite buoyant about moving from our current abode—I am only imagining that the next one will have newer adventures, newer memories and a brand new view. The husband, however is feeling the tug of being de-linked from the squirrel squad and other fauna outside our window. Or the shop-on-call that sends him everything from beer to bread to dahi to lemons and even accepts cheque payments.

To him, an apartment is like a marriage—may be because he is Cancerian and I am Gemini—one is a creature of habit, another thrives on change.

Saturday’s house-hunting sojourn (the husband and I are planning to move to the queen of burbs) was a bit of a weird experience— neither of us had been through such extreme scrutiny, though both of us had rented places as singletons without much ado in the past.

May be it’s the recent spate of crimes. Or may be the husband and I look ‘too cool to be married” . He has an American accent (thanks to 16 years in American schools) and I look like a firebrand from Kerala with my curly locks and deep brown skin. So we get asked where we are from, or whether we are ‘married’ or ‘couple’, questions we hate answering.

After convincing a dimwitted broker that we were a “married couple” and not “that kind of couple,” we get off to a bad start—we are shown some hideous flats in the queen of burbs.

Disappointed, we trail off to the boonies where the husband falls head over heels in love with an apartment (and I won’t mention where it was, as I don’t mean to be disparaging to residents thereof). He gets into immediate planning mode of where we will have our futons, our surround sound and TV. I restrain him by saying “You can’t marry the first girl you date..” .

He is not convinced. I then remind him that should we move there, Shaan restaurant would be our only social life, and Hotel Ashwin would be a landmark to get there (sorry, they are both friends’ names, but this is true) and we would have a neighbour who walks up and down corridors a hundred times as a part of his daily exercise regime (the man totally spooked me out). He gets what I mean.

I am hoping we would have zeroed in on our nest by the next column and answered more stupid questions that we can anticipate. Else I will have more of the same stories to tell you.

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