Lately I’ve been watching some of those house flipping and house hunter type shows. Lots of them show Megamansions with multi-levels and huge garages for a literal fleet of expensive vehicles. They boast sweeping double staircases and fireplaces, fire pits, pools, and more columns than a complicated Excel spreadsheet. Some have so many bathrooms that you could literally use one powder room per day for a week and not repeat. I guess it must be a West Coast thing to want so much space? I live in New York City and I have for the entirety of my post-college life… other than those four years when I lost all sense of reason and agreed to live on Long Island, facing the dreaded daily LIRR commute. So I gotta say, I barely need more than the two bedroom I currently have.
I am not complaining… however, if detained and questioned, I would have to admit that I wouldn’t be upset about an extra half bath for occasional guests. Or a pantry with room for my large kitchen appliances. (I’m talking to you six-quart air fryer!) But I do not want nor will I ever need a sprawling ten-bedroom duplex with a butler’s pantry when I don’t have the need for a butler. I don’t “entertain” at my residence, unless you call dinner for two at my fancy four leaf clover shaped dining room table an “event.” More is not more unless we are talking french fries, know what I mean??
The living in New York is so compact. And I dig it. I feel like I’m always happily editing my sock drawer, purging my closet, giving away gently warn shoes and swamping the grateful concierge staff in my building with clothing donations anyway. The very last thing I need is a walk-in handbag showroom where my wares are displayed like big rectangular dust collectors that someone in a uniform would have to clean with white gloves. It’s stressful just thinking about owning so much stuff and tending to so much space.
The low-key life is right up my alley. No paparazzi follows me. I can zip in and out of grocery stores unnoticed and be sure that I’ll never land the cover of Us Weekly in my backwards baseball hat and concert t-shirt sans glam squad. I’m never in danger of crashing my car due to a high-speed chase. I’m a nobody in a sea of everybody all trying to live our best lives in under 1300 square feet of glory with a partial view of several trees.
New York City is akin to a tiny house nation but with great amenities and permanent indoor plumbing! We have food delivery! Package collection! Indoor mail. Helpers. Fixers. Carriers. Schleppers. And no gardener, pool man, lawn guy, snow removal service, driveway paver, or gutter cleaner hits our personal payroll. The livin’ is low maintenance, even if the actual monthly maintenance runs high.
I don’t even mind that the top of my clothes dryer houses a 12-pack of extra paper towels or that my tennis racket sits among large shopping bags carefully bundled together in the front hall coat closet. My home isn’t exactly Costo friendly, but I’d say it’s Target affable. There’s no way a case of Cheerios would fit. However a sleeve of single serves stack neatly at the bottom of my linen closet. I know how to maximize the use of the nooks and crannies to happily house the slender stockpile.
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