Tip #94: Look around.
I guess it’s time to drop the two fifty from these apartment posts. It was never really the right title anyway: more careful measurements revealed that the apartment was only 240 square feet, not 250. And my dad is still convinced that we should never have included the loft space as usable square footage since we couldn’t actually walk around in it. But regardless of the measurement, the apartment that launched this series is no longer ours. We’ve emptied our stuff, swept it clean, and we’re delivering our keys to the landlord this afternoon.
Have no fear: I’ll continue regaling you with tiny apartment tips. But they’re just coming from a slightly different vantage point.
We’ve moved into a space that hovers somewhere closer to 400 square feet. Still tiny by many standards, but it’s feeling downright palatial to us. At the time of writing, I’m typing feverishly on the love seat and James is lounging on our bed. In another room. It’s like we’ve moved into some kind of spacious fantasy realm.
Next week I’ll begin doling out some practical unpacking tips for tiny apartment dwellers, but for now, here’s one weepy sentimental tip for bidding a tiny apartment adieu.
Take a good look around.
And not just to find the earring you’ve been missing for two years. Empty apartments look pretty bleak. Stripped of all our things, our beloved studio felt dingy and sad. After grumbling so much about how dirty our new place was when we moved in, I realized that without all of our things to block the view, our apartment was also in need of a good scrub and a fresh coat of paint.
Forgive me the sentimentality, but emptying the apartment of our things really just made me realize how much we’d brought to the space just by virtue of living there. In the same way that it’s hard to envision (over and over and over again) your life in a new apartment while you’re searching, it’s equally hard to imagine your life in a place once you’ve stripped it of the things that made it yours. Which is a comfort, I think; and a reminder—bear with me—that it’s people who make a house a home.