Old Fart, at Only 31

April 17, 2006 at 4:09 am (Personal)

It's funny how things occur to you in an order that end up screwing you in the end. You know, like when something falls into your lap and all you can think of are the good reasons to accept it, ignoring all the glaringly obvious bad reasons to not? Case in point…

My apartment.

Of the six apartments I've rented the current one is the only one that was available with a pool view. For some reason, I've always thought, "Hey, it would be awesome to have a pool view." Actually, not for just some reason – there are a few: 1) Be closer to the pool so I might actually USE it; 2) Have a view of something other than a parking lot; 3) Enjoy a bit of people watching from the comfort of my own patio.

When the apartment came available – two bedroom, 2nd story, attached garage, POOL VIEW – it's like I was in heaven. How could I – the queen of never getting to be part of the IN crowd – possibly be awarded an apartment with everything I wanted – including a POOL VIEW?

Six months into my lease – if you do the math you'll note my move-in date around early FALL – I've realized that the gods were not in fact awarding me anything. Instead, it was the devil of societal stereotypes infringing on my weakness for all things good. "Think good thoughts – all the FUN you'll have with that pool. Laying out… a quick sit in the hot tub… gardens of lush unkempt greenery to stare at… yeaaah, that's the stuff, aint it?"

F that.

What's wrong with a pool view? By asking that question, you've either a) never lived in an apartment with a pool view, or b) are the type of person that I'm about to complain about.

With a pool view on a warm spring or summer evening you quickly learn whether you give a shit about sleeping. See, the types of buildings apartments are – at least in North Texas – are not exactly the variety that absorb sound. No, they are built of some wonderful material that actually CONDUCTS sound right into the homes of those who work normal hours. Like, say, ME.

It's not fun at 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning to be awoken by giggling coeds and their volleyballs. No, not fun. NOT FUN AT ALL. It's not fun to feel intimidated by said partygoers and have to call the "Courtesy Officer" – TWICE – to get them kicked out.

I ask, why? Why can't I think of all the BAD things that balance out the GOOD when they come around? Why must I be sucked into a utopian image of what greatness may come of my arrival into the cool crowd? Why must I be made to feel, at only 31 that I am an old fart who just can't let it go? 


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