My Rent Controlled Apartment (aka, One Reason Why I’m Still Single)
The following is an excerpt from my book “Still Single” schedule to come out on Amazon in 2019.
I have a theory about why I am still single. It’s my apartment. I have had three or four (depending on how far back we go) serious relationships, Real Boyfriends, try to lure me out. Get me to take the next step with them: share a cable bill. Or a Hulu account, depending on which decade. I loved them to varying degrees, but I could never bring myself give up the spine in the otherwise un-tethered life: The Rent Controlled Apartment. Jobs and boyfriends come and go with the season, but a rent-controlled apartment has proven the last place in American society where a lack of commitment combined with outdated rental laws can flower into true, if not accidental, stability.
From a purely deductive point of view, boyfriend or no, I would need a head-transplant to give up a $919 a month single with hardwood floors, high ceilings and mere feet from the beach. I can hear the ocean waves at night. I am a two-minute foot-burning walk from immersing myself in the increasingly globally-warmed waters. I have also never had a person enter my apartment and not make me swear to never let it go.
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The only drawback remains the interminable retro vibe of Marina Del Rey, also known as Land of the Lost White Middle Aged Divorced Man. Since I was in an emotional coma in my twenties, I had no idea what an Old White Dude community I had moved into until one morning I walked to the local coffee shop, The Cow’s End, and noticed all these grey haired surfer guys drinking coffee and talking about their investments. Marina Del Rey, a wonder of high-rises, boats, and the Cheesecake factory, seems like the polar opposite from my hometown of Berkeley, California, where I was born. However, I can attest that cultural disconnect is a small price to pay for a beach side residence.
I did not always appreciate it. For a time, I felt that the forces of the universe had flung me into my apartment like a wet noodle thrown at a wall. Like uncooked pasta, I stuck out of sheer lack of preparedness to do anything else. However, the longer I have lived here and the more the housing crisis drives people to places like Cathedral City or Florida, the more I wondered if the forces of good simply wanted me to stay in Los Angeles where I would have good neighbors and the restorative powers of the ocean. A rent controlled apartment is a gift, or it can also keep a person, from doing certain things in my life. Like leave. Or get married. If I had been forced to live in a market rate apartment on Olympic and Bundy, I might have a family. I would surely have an ex-husband. But my apartment, too small for two people, but perfect sized for me, has created a weight that my loneliness or fear or societal pressure could not compete against. My last boyfriend sighed in resignation towards the end of our relationship: “You’ll never move out of that apartment.