By Anna Murphy
New York, NY, USA
This month I turned 26 and moved into my own place. It’s a studio apartment the size of a handicap stall, but still, it’s all mine. I figured if I’m going to be in what can now be considered my “mid-to-late-20s,” then I should probably rep it in the form of my own address. But I’ve recently realized that when you move out of a two-bedroom and no longer have a roommate, it becomes a lot less acceptable to order takeout on the reg, read dating articles out loud or blast Taylor Swift at audibly offensive levels.
Anna Murphy
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My mom and sister came to help move me in. I think my 17-year-old sister is entirely underwhelmed at the state of my life. She is applying to colleges and has actress aspirations. I work all the time, get sushi for one three nights a week and am still on my dad’s cell phone plan.
At dinner, we discussed her recent assignment to write about where she would be in ten years. My mom said to just look at my life. I shot this down immediately. When I was her age, I thought at 26, I would be a neonatologist (yes, I was one of the umpteen registered pre-med students that upon taking Chemistry 101 ran for the hills), married to my college sweetheart and living in the lap of luxury. The fact of the matter is that I am living a life that parallels that of Bridget Jones, who is, as we all know, a fictional character.
While my mom and sister were assisting with the “nesting stages” of my apartment therapy, my dad and brother were the chosen two to help me transplant the innards of one apartment into the other. It sounds gross and that’s because it was. Moving sucks. Especially when the gentleman whose lease I took over didn’t hand over his keys to me until 11 p.m. Then, physical labor ensued until 4:45 a.m. At this point, my dad had already ripped apart a couch that couldn’t fit through the doorway. He would have ripped out his hair had he any left. He also made the comment that I needed to get a boyfriend because he was not ever moving me again. Thanks dad, I get it.
My place has come a long ways since then. I had one working outlet, no hot water, a broken fridge and a bathroom light that didn’t turn off. How the guy before me actually lived there still boggles my mind. I somehow hid my 100 pairs of shoes under my lofted bed and stuffed my dresses into the smallest closet that exists, using brute force and very thin hangers. While there was no rhyme or reason to the organization of my contents, it didn’t really matter because my style is “effortless chic” anyway (a term coined by my coworker regarding my personal style) and I really only ever wear my TOMS.
When I first moved to New York, I made pennies and lived in midtown west with my male craigslist roommate (who was awesome). I counterbalanced my living/funds situation with the seersucker suits I wore to my summer internship every day. My feet were blistered and bruised by walking ten blocks in flashy heels to/from work, I got my hair highlighted, went tanning and had a gym membership I actually used.
So now, I try to justify my current state of existence by attesting that I’m just comfortable in my skin, which is fittingly represented in my comfortable outward appearance. I know that I’m short - so sensible flats it is. I sometimes leave the house looking like a hippie or homeless or both because my fashion motto is “grab & go.” I’ve embraced my mousy brown hair, pale Irish skin and sporadic workout regime. My best friend, who recently moved here, said that she looked at our (our being all of us Florida-to-NY transplants) pictures and noted, from her vantage-point in Tampa, that we looked “rough around the edges” - i.e., our nails weren’t done, our hair a bit scraggly and our overall appearance a little haphazard. Looking around me though, that’s the norm.
Cut to her living here and adopting all of our seemingly unsatisfactory habits. But, on the other hand, we’ve been dealt an even better hand and we’re all at the happiest points in our lives. I think it’s because three years out of college, we know ourselves and know what’s important - relationships, careers and the occasional Sunday Funday. And, even though I may have watched Bridget Jones on my laptop last night alone in bed, the movie has a happy ending and a grand prize in the form of Colin Firth.
Anna Murphy works in Beauty PR. She enjoys long runs along the Hudson River, live music, vegan cookies and the Florida Gators.
