Painting Walls

My studio apartment is a wreck. It looks like all five of my closets have vomited their contents onto the floor of my living "room" (really a space separated from my bed by a few curtains).

I could not be happier.

Right now I am taking a break from painting two walls of my room, a job I planned to work on last year when I moved in. I am listening to Marvin Gaye sing "Let's Get It On" and I just finished eating leftover Chinese food from a paper container. Everything around me is in disarray and it drives me crazy, but I am happy because I know everything will soon be righted and, with a dark blue and a light blue wall, and organized closets, and pictures of birds finally hung on my walls, my life will feel permanent, real, validated. 

For the past year I have delayed spending money on the finishing touches needed to make my apartment really feel like a home. I spend money on happy hours, not house paint; on books, not bath towels; and on shoes, not shelving units. I make excuses as to why I can't afford to buy shelves to organize my junk and I justify other impulse buys by saying life is meant to be fun, to be lived, to be celebrated in the moment.

I think the real reason I have dragged my feet on decorating my space is that I am waiting for a new space to inhabit. I think, and it pains me to say this, that I secretly thought my single status was temporary, ethereal, a blip on the screen. I didn't believe it could stretch on for possibly years and years. 

It's silly. I chide myself for even thinking that this is what was brewing in my subconscious. Why wait for a man to validate my existence? My life? 

My life is now. 

This moment.

This apartment.

My one, precious, wild life is happening right now.

My life deserves to feel real. I need to make it mine. I need to claim my own existence selfishly- make plans for me alone. I need to stop living for what I think might be, should be, will be... and live for what is--

this instant.