Last night, as I lay in my bed I thought back to 10 years ago. I was living alone in my first ever flat - the first place (except for at university) where I’d lived away from my parents. The first place I could truly call my own.
It hadn’t been a long term dream as far as I can remember. Actually, I don’t remember thinking or dreaming at all of what it would be like to have my own place. It all happened rather fast - one day I was living at home, the next I spotted a cute flat not too far from my parents house and then I was on the way to buying it.
It was a new experience living on my own, but an exciting one. If I decided to eat my breakfast in my jammies at 2pm or sob over reality shows in my undies then nobody would ever have to know. (I would like to point out I did neither of these things - I just could have if I’d been so inclined!)
But after a while of living in my own little flat I got a little disillusioned. The walls were thin and I could hear every detail of my neighbours, erm, amorous activities. Frequently. I even gave them a round of applause one night. I felt they’d earned it.
I was the only one of those in our block who would put out the bins and it was me that took it upon myself to fix our wall when it came down into our garden. A garden which was so overgrown that I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were undiscovered tribes living in the wilderness. There were cigarette butts outside our front doors and I couldn’t go to the toilet if the neighbours had decided to take a cigarette break - which they did almost as frequently as their ‘other’ activities - as the bathroom window overlooked the entranceway and my neighbours would hear and laugh at my colitisy antics. I’m not just imagining this scenario. I try to repress from my memory what is known as ‘the night of the noisy skitters’.
I would stand at my window looking out onto my wilderness and dream of owning a small house where the only bins that I needed to take out were my own. Where I could actually walk in my garden and possibly grow some veggies. Oh, and wouldn’t it be lovely if there could be a little dog to join me in my little house and garden? But most importantly in the little house of my dreams - my bathroom would be far away from civilisation - for the protection of society as well as my fragile ego, of course. Yes, and, my own bedroom would not share a wall with another bedroom. Especially when your neighbours are rabbits.
Then, almost as quickly as I got my flat, it was sold and I found myself in a chocolate box of a house with its own garden, tucked away loo, quiet bedroom and where the only bins I cared about were my own. A little while later - a little dog joined me in my little house and my dream was complete.
For a while.
Now I dream of meeting my soul mate and getting married. Of moving to a house where we don’t have so many neighbours (did you guess I’m an introvert, yet?) and a big enough garden to let kids and doggies run free. To have American style cook-outs in the summer.
And when I get that?
I’ll dream of being a published author. Of having my perfect home and garden and man and dogs and children and, and, and…
And I realised last night, as I slept in my quiet bedroom in my little house, snuggled up with my little dog, that I was living the life I dreamed of those years in my flat. The life I wanted so much. The life that would make me happy and instead I’m here dreaming of bigger and better things. Other things that I want that will make my life happy and perfect.
When will I be able to stop, sit back and relax with what I have? To enjoy the life that I have dreamed of when I didn’t have it?
It was quite a sobering thought if I continue on this way I will never be happy because I don’t live in the moment. I don’t appreciate the now and what I have right now.
So that’s one of my new resolutions…
…Slow down, take time to appreciate and live in the now. You can still dream but don’t let it take away from what was once a dream come true.
