Until yesterday afternoon when I moved into my new Toronto apartment, I was spending my time at my boyfriend’s house. Since he’s 21 and in school, he’s living with his mom and dad at their home just outside the city’s downtown core. Their house is an elegant turn-of-the-century mansion that feels more like a museum than a place of residence.
I like jumping in puddles to see how deep they are. Like pickles and chocolate, elegant mansions and I aren’t a great mix. But for a few days, I can manage to grin and bear it.
After using the wrong dish towel, not eating with a placemat and sitting in a chair that wasn’t meant for sitting, I reached my breaking point. I dashed into the living room and switched the order of the couch’s two differently colored ottomans. “What now?!,” I exclaimed to my boyfriend in a half-joking frenzy. “What now?!”
Interestingly, the roof did not collapse. The house didn’t fold in on itself in a tribute to Steven Spielberg’s Poltergeist and chaos did not befall the planet. Life went on, and perhaps all the more interestingly. Until my boyfriend quickly switched the ottomans back.
Last night, I was relieved to move into my new home. I’ll be living here for 4 weeks, and the unit is pretty wild. I’m staying in Toronto’s Rosedale neighborhood, and I’m living on two floors of a once-grand-but-now-dilapidated old home. Judging from the glass fruit and retro furniture, the home was last renovated around when I was born. It hasn’t received much TLC since then, but I have a deep love for urban decay.
Plus, no placemats required. I’ll be just fine.
Tiada ulasan:
Catat Ulasan