The lament of an IKEA shopper

We tend not to give ourselves credit for our triumphs when they don't fit the correct socioeconomic mold; here's how I changed my perspective on that

When I got my first apartment, I ate every meal on the floor for two consecutive months. Cushioned by the pink waffle knit blanket that I paid $10 for from Ikea— tinged with the scent of raid lining every nook and cranny — I would enjoy the delicacy of Trader Joe’s orange chicken and a glass of 2% milk. My parents consistently detailed the lifestyle they lived after they moved out from their parents’ homes: ramen noodles in shoe-box sized efficiencies and not a single dining table in sight. I always imagined this lifestyle for myself when I thought about the prospect of moving out at eighteen, though the charm took on a different meaning when it was imagined in the City of New York. In perfect order with the trajectory I envisioned, my first couple of moths on my own were not far off from my parents, though I was raised on skim milk and had to rebel in some way. I began working right away, taking a gap year from school and loathing the act of doing any task labeled for adults. Laundry every Sunday, groceries once a week, meal prepping, writing out my rent on a check with my own name on it, and the act of pretending like I know how to file my own taxes (I don’t). All of these things proving to consume much of my time, energy, and income, and I still couldn’t help but wonder how each day on my walk home from work at 6:30 PM, there were young men and women enjoying a beautiful candlelit dinner on a Tuesday. As a now nineteen year old with a revolving credit line and a fifty-five hour work week I feel as though I either think way too highly of myself to be classifying myself in the same group as someone merely because of my age, or that I am much further behind than I wanted to admit.

The very first picture I took of the outside of my apartment door, welcome to A1.

Each acquaintance and close confidant I have made along the way has been confident enough to shower me with the customary, “You don’t know how impressive that is!” with flattering notes of “I could never do that”. In a city with so much wealth and simultaneous uneven distribution of it, shouldn’t I see more representation of the people like me? The nineteen year old girls whose parents had to put their financial security on the hook for the role of a guarantor instead of the primary source of income. All of this to say I haven’t found that crowd, and therefore the act of funding my own life feels significantly less impressive. In a place where the external beauty of outfits and outings take priory, the real work that goes into achieving it is so far overlooked; one thing my parents could have never prepared me for.

I now own a couch. My Ikea blanket still keeps me cozy, but I’ve begun to branch out from orange chicken and into the realm of haricot verts and Autumn Harvest soup. I feel the breeze of March blow through my windows and take deep breaths, envisioning my parents doing the same at my age. I may not have found my group of collective, self-sufficient, New York nineteen year olds, though I’ve found myself as the first in my family to leave Wisconsin. The first to enroll at a four-year university, the first to call Trader Joe’s their grocery store of choice, and the first to graduate to 2% milk. I’ve been able to find more comfort in being proud of the life I know and counting my small steps as large when I consider the generations of family before me who dreamed of simply seeing New York though their TV sets. Of course I adore finding the perfect outfit and the idea of going out to dinner and drinks on a Tuesday, and I have a feeling that somewhere down the line I can have it, but for now I will take “success” at my own pace and at my own reward, even if it starts with eating dinner on the floor.

With love always,

Olivia Jean