The Studio
Christina Hamlett
October 07, 2006
Although I didn’t know it at the beginning, it was my parents’ intention to have a major say-so in who I’d marry when I grew up. Had I been born in another country or culture or, for that matter, another century altogether, this edict might have been accepted as a matter of tradition. Choosing a suitable spouse for one’s offspring would have been paramount to protecting the family bloodlines, not to mention preserving the family coffers from lurking fortune hunters and gigolos.
Their mistake, of course, was in allowing me to go to public school where I was to be exposed to all manner of free-thinking ideas, including the idea of being able to marry whomever I happened to fall in love with.
By the time I turned 19, I decided I was going to spend the rest of my life with Kent, a PR guy from Arizona who looked like a young Arnold Palmer. Why that should be a particular attraction to someone 19 who didn’t even play golf I’m not really sure. What I am sure of, though, is that my parents put their feet down and said MOST CERTAINLY NOT. And this was even before I told them he was a Democrat.
As long as you’re living under this roof,” they warned, “we forbid you to date anyone we don’t approve of.”
There was obviously only one solution. I opted to extricate myself from under their roof.
I was working downtown at that time in my first government job and, looming like a monolith directly behind my building, was a high-rise apartment complex. Certainly its proximity to where I worked had much to commend it. The day after my parents’ declaration that Kent was taboo, I walked into the manager’s office on my lunch hour and asked to see an apartment.
The only thing available for immediate rent was a furnished studio for $150 a month. “What a steal!” I thought, especially since the building also came with the prestige of its own doorman. Three doormen, actually, who rotated shifts and wore snappy, burgundy blazers. Looking back, they must have been bank security guards in their past employment, given their propensity to totally ignore big things like people walking out with couches yet scurry as fast as their chubby legs could carry them at the first whiff of doughnuts.
I don’t think I ever knew what the square footage of my new address was, although I do remember being hugely impressed that something the size of my old bedroom could also contain a kitchen, a bathroom, and two closets. From my third floor balcony, I also had a view of the Olympic-size swimming pool. Life was good.
The succession of guests who came to visit, mostly actors, were unfamiliar with the compact nature of studio apartments. “So where’s your bedroom?” they’d inquire, unaware they were already standing in it. The only thing that might have made my living quarters even cooler in my estimation would have been a Murphy bed, although I suspect at some point it probably would have fallen out of its wall slot and brained me. Instead, I had a tweedy orange and brown convertible sofa with hinges that occasionally got stuck midway. By the time I moved a year later, it had become easier to just leave it open.
My parents, particularly my mother, were nonplussed with my choice of habitat and were certain I’d move back within a week. Surely after I discovered that gourmet meals didn’t magically appear or that I’d have to take an elevator down to the dungeonesque basement and put quarters in washing machines, I’d be begging them to let me return. They were also convinced that, given my assortment of theater friends, I’d probably be throwing naked orgies every weekend, smoking cheap cigarettes, and prancing around in diaphanous costumes like Isadora Duncan.
Quite the opposite. For as much time as I was dividing between a day job and evening rehearsals and performances, I came to covet the quiet hours I could just sit out on my balcony with a book and relish the freedom of being on my own.
As for Kent, I broke up with him about two weeks after I moved in. What began as a one-man cheering section of support for my bold step toward independence from my parents quickly segued into an objective to try to divest me of my virginity. “Good grief,” I thought. “I’m not even unpacked yet.”
Even at 19, I had my priorities.
Their mistake, of course, was in allowing me to go to public school where I was to be exposed to all manner of free-thinking ideas, including the idea of being able to marry whomever I happened to fall in love with.
By the time I turned 19, I decided I was going to spend the rest of my life with Kent, a PR guy from Arizona who looked like a young Arnold Palmer. Why that should be a particular attraction to someone 19 who didn’t even play golf I’m not really sure. What I am sure of, though, is that my parents put their feet down and said MOST CERTAINLY NOT. And this was even before I told them he was a Democrat.
As long as you’re living under this roof,” they warned, “we forbid you to date anyone we don’t approve of.”
There was obviously only one solution. I opted to extricate myself from under their roof.
I was working downtown at that time in my first government job and, looming like a monolith directly behind my building, was a high-rise apartment complex. Certainly its proximity to where I worked had much to commend it. The day after my parents’ declaration that Kent was taboo, I walked into the manager’s office on my lunch hour and asked to see an apartment.
The only thing available for immediate rent was a furnished studio for $150 a month. “What a steal!” I thought, especially since the building also came with the prestige of its own doorman. Three doormen, actually, who rotated shifts and wore snappy, burgundy blazers. Looking back, they must have been bank security guards in their past employment, given their propensity to totally ignore big things like people walking out with couches yet scurry as fast as their chubby legs could carry them at the first whiff of doughnuts.
I don’t think I ever knew what the square footage of my new address was, although I do remember being hugely impressed that something the size of my old bedroom could also contain a kitchen, a bathroom, and two closets. From my third floor balcony, I also had a view of the Olympic-size swimming pool. Life was good.
The succession of guests who came to visit, mostly actors, were unfamiliar with the compact nature of studio apartments. “So where’s your bedroom?” they’d inquire, unaware they were already standing in it. The only thing that might have made my living quarters even cooler in my estimation would have been a Murphy bed, although I suspect at some point it probably would have fallen out of its wall slot and brained me. Instead, I had a tweedy orange and brown convertible sofa with hinges that occasionally got stuck midway. By the time I moved a year later, it had become easier to just leave it open.
My parents, particularly my mother, were nonplussed with my choice of habitat and were certain I’d move back within a week. Surely after I discovered that gourmet meals didn’t magically appear or that I’d have to take an elevator down to the dungeonesque basement and put quarters in washing machines, I’d be begging them to let me return. They were also convinced that, given my assortment of theater friends, I’d probably be throwing naked orgies every weekend, smoking cheap cigarettes, and prancing around in diaphanous costumes like Isadora Duncan.
Quite the opposite. For as much time as I was dividing between a day job and evening rehearsals and performances, I came to covet the quiet hours I could just sit out on my balcony with a book and relish the freedom of being on my own.
As for Kent, I broke up with him about two weeks after I moved in. What began as a one-man cheering section of support for my bold step toward independence from my parents quickly segued into an objective to try to divest me of my virginity. “Good grief,” I thought. “I’m not even unpacked yet.”
Even at 19, I had my priorities.
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