I have spent the last year of my life wishing I could move out of my parents house to sunny, beautiful Los Angeleez. Three weeks ago, I finally did that, but in true, miserable human being-like fashion, I have already found something to dislike about living on my own, making me miss how good I had it at home.
Now, what could I possibly have to complain about with my beautiful townhouse that includes a guest bathroom, yes, guest bathroom (with guest towels!), and a garbage disposal?
I mean, look at the beginnings of my tropical resort hotel themed bedroom. I have a succulent garden for Christsakes. What could be wrong with this set up???
Well, besides a 90 year-old woman tenants call “Grandma” who speaks no English and lurks around the complex for hours on end (which, in my opinion, gives the place a quirky charm that the landlord could start charging for as a utility), basically everyone here is moderately to severely attractive, which is just enough attractive to make me want to look presentable at all times. It’s exhausting.
There is one specific person that I’d really like to impress:
About two weeks ago I had a full on Dreamweaver moment in the garage. As I was pulling out, this hunk of man, like, I mean, a real credit to the male species. If I dated him, he would clean the slate that I defaced with all those actors and stand up comedians I dated in college.
So, he gets out of his car in just some running shorts.
He walks by my car and waves, and I basically just Anne Hathway-ed a “derp, derp, derp, a-woooooga” reply to myself while my mother waved back.
Also, know that this post is getting deleted the second he and I have a real conversation because it’s only getting worse from here.
Since then, I have sat in my car pretending to set up my GPS while I waited for him to pass my car again so I could wave. And, most recently, as I was running late to my off-brand Ballet Barre class, Pop Physique, I opened my front door only to find his back turned to me, talking to a maintenance guy. Except I was in gym clothes, and not like, Lululemon lycra/spun gold blend yoga pants (that’s what they’re made of that they can charge $150 for YOGA PANTS, right?), but American Eagle men’s boxer shorts. I slam the door, and watch through the peephole until he leaves, and make my full descent into madness.
Now, why was I wearing boxer shorts when I have several pairs of perfectly adequate OLD NAVY yoga pants? Oh, well, I hadn’t done laundry in a while because I was trying to find a day when I already had both make up on and time (I won’t put make up on just to do laundry, I’m not insane). When I finally do find that time, that perfect bewitching hour, I loiter in the laundry room, then slowly make my way to the stairs, try to invent a new way to climb them where I never actually lift my feet, finally make it to the door and see how long it takes to unlock a door with my eyes closed, hoping somewhere along the way I’ll see him.
I think I now know how my favorite living ghost, my neighbor, got her start. When Grandma was but a girl, she locked eyes with a handsome personal trainer, and would lurk these corridors just for the chance to talk to him. He moved out years ago, but 65 years later, she still waits for him in her nicest black dress. Or her only black dress. I’ve only ever seen this lady in one outfit like some cartoon character.
