Leave no trace

I walk into my friend’s building. As always, there is an entire landing full of shoes even before you get in the door of her apartment. Just inside, I find jeans carefully placed on the dining room floor as if on display- it’s just something she does when she gets new clothes. Blankets lie on the couch. A hairdryer sits on the floor of the bathroom for no current use. It’s clean, but it’s not perfect.

I am so jealous.

My place has only been on the market for three days but it feels like much longer. My furniture is here. My livelihood is not. I didn’t realize how much stuff I interacted with and used until the majority of my belongings were put away, stored elsewhere or thrown out. But even more difficult, anything I do at home has to be undone by the time I leave. Unshower. Unget ready. Unsleep. Unmake dinner. Unlook at the mail. Unremove shoes.

It kind of makes me want to do a lot less of all these things. I haven’t washed my hair since Saturday because it produces less foamy soapy film. I sleep on a third of the bed because it’s easier to put it all back together. I eat packaged meals and keep the garbage under the sink, out of view. I take all the mail and papers with me when I leave- I now have a collection of bags in my car. I wear the same shoes everyday so it’s just a matter of stopping by the same place I left them and putting them back on again.

Seems pretty simple. And it is. Too simple.

Life is messy. In fact, life continues from one day to the next and it doesn’t always make sense to make the bed in between. Or re-sanitize the bathroom every night. Or put every fucking thing back where you found it.

The best news I received today is that there are two showings scheduled for this week. This could mean an offer. And an offer could mean a contract. And I would be celebrated with a big ol’ sloppy mess. I may not even clean again until I have to move out.

I’ve spent so much time preparing for this grand moment. It feels like when someone is taking a photo and you’re stuck in the perfect pose with a perfect smile and then it just takes them 10 seconds, maybe even 20 seconds too long. And your face starts to hurt from smiling but not in that good way where you’re having the best time ever, but in that way the it did when I had to sit for a three-hour family photo shoot when my dad ran for alderman when I was seven. LIKE THAT. I’d include that photo here but it’s in a box somewhere, I think.

Each morning is like packing up from a campsite. I need to make sure to leave it exactly how I found it. Leave no trace that I was here. But this is not a campsite. Or a hotel. Or someone else’s house. It’s supposed to be home and I can’t wait for it to feel like that again.