I just hopped back onto the lady-memoir bandwagon, but luckily it wasn’t a bad book. Oddly somehow both more self-indulgent than Elizabeth Gilbert and her ilk, but also less. Meghan Daum’s LIFE WOULD BE PERFECT IF I LIVED IN THAT HOUSE was a) depressing; b) stressful, dear god, extremely stressful, gave me heart palpitations by times; c) funny as hell; and d) a very entertaining read, despite the physical side effects.
All I want to do right now is settle down in our own place and pray that it’s not too expensive. And I want to stay there for the foreseeable future and NEST. I am not a mover – I move into a place and then I fall in love with it and never want to leave. I find moving to be a fairly traumatic experience and thus do it as infrequently as I can get away with. Meghan Daum moved 7 TIMES JUST IN 4 YEARS OF UNDERGRAD ALONE. Then she proceeded to, in her late twenties and early thirties bounce between Nebraska and LA and New York 5 or 6 times. Her tales of these various moves and the compulsion that drove her to move all over hell’s half acre three to four times a year for two decades made me feel deeply unsettled but simultaneously entertained. Seriously, when reading about the clutter and the various logistics, and the packing and unpacking, and the COST of all it, it made my chest feel all tight and seized up. Like I couldn’t really breathe.
So thanks to Meghan Daum, I have figured out my own compulsion. I am a flightless bird, an ostrich if you will, and I am in dire need of a nest.