Living Small

I'm not a habitual ranter, but I feel one coming on. The New York Times ran an editorial today with the title, "Sinful Second Homes." The piece derides those environmentalists who keep second homes – most notably Al Gore, who actually has three homes if you count his family farm.

I not only have a problem with people who keep second homes, I have a problem with people who have a single home. MaGreen and I live in half a home – a two-bedroom apartment. Granted, we own the place and there's a yard, but it is still a two-bedroom apartment, a little unit in a building split down the middle. Every baby book I've read has a section on preparing "the baby's room." Our baby does not have a room. Why does she need a room? She's only seven months old. I don't even have a room. There's the living room, the office with a spare single bed, the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen.

Why don't we move to the suburbs where we could easily get a four-bedroom place for the same price? I couldn't bicycle to work. We couldn't walk to our friends' places. We couldn't walk to the Gay Pride Parade or to restaurants, grocers, bars, and schools. We just couldn't walk. The more I walk and ride my bicycle, the more strongly I hate the car-centered lifestyle that I grew up in. It's a prison. The most stunning aspect about my life on bicycle and on foot has been how social it is. I meet people.

I want gigantic house owners to feel bad. MaGreen and I spent the last three days cleaning our apartment. It's hard to keep a place clean when you're packed into it. All space is at a high premium. There is no room – as in physical space – for nostalgia. You can't keep all the ragged shirts of your childhood or the ridiculous collection of knickknacks you've accumulated. You have to pick two or three and chuck the rest. I feel like wealthy people have squandered all the world's resources on creating giant storage spaces. We air-condition formal living room sets, formal dining tables, and closets full of completely useless junk like battery-powered polar bears that clap to the tune of jingle bells.

When I was in Utah with MaGreen and BabyG, we spent the day in the hospital with MaGreen's step-mother. In the evenings, we packed up MaGreen's parent's house, because they had just sold it and needed to move out within the month. My job was to go through the basement. As I went through box after box of porcelain turtles, I couldn't help but think of a lack of space as a saving grace. Having a giant basement and five extra rooms encourages junk collecting. At the hospital, I saw all the new equipment for America's increasingly obese population. This wheelchair was stationed right outside of the hospital room. BabyG's body in that gigantic wheelchair – it just set me to thinking about living small.

Maybe one day soon, our family won't fit into our half-house even more than we're not fitting into it now. Maybe MaGreen will get a high-paying job. The house will start cracking from the pressure and we'll move to a country home with a staircase just for show. But in the meantime, I'm going to lord our lean, green apartment over all the hypocritical environmentalists who have whole houses.