Portable Pink

Root canal. Bikini wax. Chug an extra hoppy India Pale Ale. These are all things I would rather do than move. As in residences. This week The Beau and I are packing for our big move on Saturday. We are right around that zone of denial. We only have a few more boxes to go. That will be super easy on Friday night, right? I guarantee that, on Friday night, there will be rage packing. Flinging the lingering clothes, toiletries and shoes into boxes. Disposing of papers that should probably be shredded. Dumping perfectly good tubes of moisturizer and Neosporin in the trash because, WHY do we have five tubes of Neosporin?

I also hate packing because this will be my fourth move in just over two years. When The Ex and I broke up on November 2, 2013, I wanted to be the one who moved out. He stayed with family for a month until I could get into the cutest girly apartment in WeHo adjacent. I wanted to leave the ruins of our 12.5 year marriage for him to sort through and dispose of. I wanted to start fresh. With new, all white IKEA furniture.

I bought pink rugs and pink pillows and pink seat cushions. I fluffed floral and pink gingham bedding on a queen sized bed, accented by pictures of flowers and Hollywood starlets on my walls. My 480 square foot studio apartment oozed femininity right down to the walk THROUGH closet leading to my vintage tiled bathroom that was far larger than a studio apartment bathroom had any right of being.

That apartment spoke to me. She understood me. Comforted me for hours while I sobbed to the Haim Pandora station and subsisted on wine, coffee, and string cheese. I cared for her. One of my great pleasures was waking up on a Saturday morning to start my cleaning ritual—vacuuming the sofa cushions, soaking the dish drainer and stove elements (although, who was I kidding, I hardly cooked during that time). Using the Bissell Automatic Floor Scrubber that The Ex guilt gifted me to shine up those bathroom tiles. (I once had an overnight male guest who left sprinkles on the bathroom floor—that prompted the no sleep-over policy implemented in April, 2014.)

Yes. That apartment was my sanctuary. I never wanted to leave. But, as fate or the universe or timing would have it, our relationship lasted exactly as long as the one-year lease. I had to move on. I could no longer afford to live the single girl life and my financial future was dangerously uncertain. One of the Lifesavers of my life, The Queen, rescued me from a dark spiral that even the sparkliest of bathrooms couldn’t conquer. On a rainy December evening, I tearfully locked my front door for the last time. Most of my pink and white things were placed in a 7 and-a-half by 10 foot storage unit. My bed, dresser and vanity desk occupied The Queen’s guest bedroom, down the hall from her beautiful 4-year-old son’s bedroom.

A month later, after committing to delete my online dating profiles, I had one date left with a really sweet guy who had patiently challenged me to Words With Friends until we could finally get that introductory cup of coffee.

Ten months later, I was spending most nights with The Beau, 42 miles from The Queen’s castle. As timing, et al, would have it, one of his two roommates moved out and the castle suffered a plumbing problem that would take months to resolve and mostly impacted my bathroom. So, I hauled my pink and white things to a Gingerbread style house practically in Orange County where I would share two rooms with The Beau and The Roommate’s Tortoise Tabby, Camille.  

Until this Saturday when we start a new chapter.  A chapter set 20 feet from where it all began 28 months ago. Back to the life and the Ex Next Door.