1403

So the thing is, I moved.

I moved out of the house I have lived in for [nearly] the entirety of my time here in Denver. Aside from my first 3 months in this city [when I lived in a sketchy snazzy little apartment downtown with Alix] I have lived in the 1403 house. As for why this move took place, let's just leave it at this: I tried my hardest to stay and nothing [and I do mean nothing] worked out. The best possible option for what to do next existed in an apartment a couple of miles away. So while I do think this is the right thing, to have moved, the choice made me more than I made it.

There was so little time between said choice and d-day that I was immediately catapulted into action mode and forced to work my little fingers to the bone getting ready. Living in such a big place for such a long time, I think, would turn the most simple of livers into a hoarder. I have packrat tendencies to begin with, so as you can imagine, moving out of that house was no easy task. All that to say, it happened so fast that it wasn't until tonight - the move over and final and done, the house cleared out and cleaned up and empty as can be - that it finally hit me. I went through each room one last time. I started to take the key off my keychain and my eyes got full of emotion and I cried. I cried a lot. Significantly more than I expected to cry, in fact, and I stood there for a solid 45 minutes and I couldn't make myself leave because it seemed so final and suddenly, I wasn't ready for it to be over.

Because on the one hand, it's just a house. And yes, we had mice. The maintenance man who we had to call all the time, Sam Hill [I did not make that up], had a conspiracy theory about almost everything from the Catholic Church to the government controlling cloud formation. The windows in the entire house are painted shut so no air that isn't central air circulates through the house ever. It's arctic in the winter, tropical in the summer. I don't think it was ever really been satisfactorily clean in the entire four years I lived there. It was decorated primarily with items that were a) acquired in some kind of white-elephant gift exchange or b) free. There is duct tape holding my shower together. And I'm pretty sure if you take a shower in the upstairs bathroom at the right time of day the neighbors might can see you a little bit naked. All of these things are true about that house. All of those things are less than ideal on multiple levels.

And while leaving those things behind I'm ok with, closing the door for the last time meant closing the door on a really beautiful four years of my life. On so many occasions it has been filled to maximum capacity with my people. I drank a lot of cheap wine and made a lot of great friends. It's where I spent the night on the floor while my bed went unoccupied because a sleepover sounded fun. I spent snow days watching movies in the basement and I trundled and I baked a bazillion pumpkin cookies and I became a writer. I lived with ten different roommates in this house [thirteen if you count the dogs]. I never quite knew who would stroll in the back door and that was fine because whoever it was was welcome and they knew it. I like who I've become there. And you know what? I actually really like Sam Hill. I like [most of] what I learned there and I am so unbelievably thankful that in these past four years of finding and losing and laughing and crying I've had a home. And like I've said before, there are few things more comforting and lovely than the right kind of home.

So off I've gone. Part of me is excited and part of me is terrified and most of me is just tired, what with all the crying. And I think it's ok to grieve a little because, say what you want, change is hard. But what I have discovered in the past two weeks of purging my life of extraneous items is that without meaning to, I've let a lot of things that don't define me do just that. And maybe that's why I couldn't stay there any longer. That house will always be special to me, but that house is not me. I will be me without the Halloween Party. I will be me without a big house in a perfectly central location. I will be me in my new house, too. And it might take a minute to figure out what that looks like - but just like any good breakup, no matter how amicable the terms, I've got to give myself some time to be sad. Then, though, I have to turn off the 90's breakup ballads, get up, and figure out how to be me outside of 1403 S. University Blvd.

Probably I'll learn some more and then probably I'll write something really magical about it. So we have that to look forward to, which is nice. In the meantime, I'll just be here in my new apartment, listening to Exposé and replaying the good times in a black and white montage in my head. Because nothing commemorates true love like a good saxophone solo.

It was a pleasure living in you, house. Thanks for the memories, as they say.