The upside of being forced to move is that I get to look at a lot of apartment listings, and visit apartments, and daydream about life would be like if I lived there.

What would I be like in a 1930s deco apartment? Would I start wearing pearls and iron all my clothes using the fold-down ironing board in the kitchen, whistling?

Would I take up a new hobby in the 1-bedroom from the early-90s with the farmhouse sink and in-unit washer/dryer? Would that savings of time and effort lend itself into something bigger, or would I end up watching YouTube on the couch I’d have to buy?

What about that converted studio right off the bus line? It was so small I’d be forced to become the tidiest person in all the land. But it had a real, working fireplace taking up most of one wall, so maybe I could rig up an honest-to-God spit roast.

And then there’s the one, that apartment that’s the right balance of price, amenities, and aesthetics. This one is a little quirky, perched in the trees like a little treehouse, with two longhouse-style roof poking up like mushrooms among the undergrowth. It was built in 1976, and it brings out the artist in me. In it, I’m actually looking forward to the winter rains.

I envision that this will be the home where I continue to heal physically and push myself ambitiously. It’s so delightfully “1970s Pacific Northwest Treefort” that it’s diametrically opposite of most of the interior design trends that are happening today. It will be a fun challenge to build an interior life that is 1. cozy, 2. an extension of myself, but that 3. fits the delightfully wonky vibe of the place.

I’m not sure what that’ll look like yet, but it will be glorious.