Was It Worth It?

As much as I'd like to claim to be a fearless rebel with a cause, the truth is I have a tendency to all-too-easily surrender my power.  Few things unnerve me more than the thought of being in "trouble" or having someone think ill of me for whatever reason.

When I received a notice from my apartment complex several weeks ago, informing me they'd be entering my home to install a carbon monoxide detector, I was sick to my stomach.  They knew I had one cat and I'd dutifully paid them their extra "pet fee" each month in the more than four years I'd lived there.  And I probably could have gotten away with claiming ignorance about a caged pet. But two cats and two rabbits?  I'd be evicted.  Or charged extra money.  Or worse...given a warning. 

My conscience was a firing squadron.  My mind, its paralyzed target.  Who would come in?  Would they notice?  Would they care?  Would they use this as an opportunity to retaliate for last summer's barn swallow incident (when, after they dismissed my claim that they were violating a federal conservation law, I reported them to the DEC for disrupting the nests of barn swallows--including five fledglings--who'd taken refuge in the car ports)?

[Should I move the rabbits out for a couple of days?  (Ugh...even if I move the rabbits I can't transport George's hutch by myself, and an empty giant chewed-up wire and plastic enclosure is no less incriminating.)] 

[Okay...then should I hide the rabbits?  But where?  The walk-in closet?  Nope.  George's cage won't fit through the door.  The bathroom?  Still nope.  George's cage can't make that turn.] 

With less than 24 hours to execute a plan, I feebly decided I would simply tuck George away in the back of my living room and create an eye-distracting decoy--dozens of boxes and bins full of items I'd planned to donate stacked mountainously on top of the couch in front of him, plus a few more strewn across the carpet for good measure.  In the event that they did happen to spy George amidst the clutter, they hopefully wouldn't care too much since it seemed I was moving out soon anyway.  It might just work.

Now what about the others?

Holly and Quincy, much to their chagrin, could be locked in the bathroom with a sign on the door that read "please don't let the cat out" (making sure "cat" was singular, of course).  In the notice, it was requested that all animals be appropriately contained.  They shouldn't suspect anything. 

And since the bathroom was the "safest" place, it made sense to me that Hannah also go in there.  I placed her in the bathtub and, to her grunting protest, pulled the shower curtain--just in case the maintenance staff still happened to open the door.

As I was about to leave for work the morning of the big entrance, it occurred to me that there might be one last piece of evidence I hadn't yet accounted for--the smell.  Although I didn't think my apartment stunk like a small barn, I couldn't be sure how it would stimulate an outsider's olfactory senses.  But it was too late to burn incense or candles and my firefighter father taught me well that such things cannot be left unattended. 

In a sudden stroke of genius, it occurred to me to smudge my apartment.  It could be done quickly and safely and be extinguished before I left, and the sweet, earthy, herby fragrance left by the smoke of burning sage leaves would certainly overpower any lingering animal odors--so much so that they were likely to conclude I was some big stoner before they had a chance to suspect I might have a couple of extra animals than my lease permitted.  I was okay with that.    

I went off to work, feeling at last empowered by my brilliant cover-up.  My empowerment waxed as 5:00 neared without any quizzical phone calls from the complex management staff, and waxed stronger as I returned home to not find any notes on my door.

But it waned the instant I pulled back the shower curtain to face one very perturbed little bunny.

ONE question.

(Uh oh.)   

Was it WORTH it?

I had to think about that longer than I probably should have.  "Um...I guess?"

Hannah grunted.

"No," I finally conceded after rehashing the fear and franticness I'd wreaked upon myself over the past day.  "This wasn't worth it."

Through careful reflection and meditation (since Hannah refused to talk to me any further, not that I blame her), I realized how much my being in love with the idea of living in that apartment had made me its prisoner.  It was a "luxury" complex--the same one my ex-husband and I had looked at and decided we couldn't afford together before we were married, and there I was paying to live there all on my own.  It was in Camillus, a zip code that in my mind afforded me higher social status.  And it was mine--my post-divorce haven, my post-breakup reclamation.

I was so deeply afraid it would be snatched up from me before I was prepared to let it go.  So deeply that I resorted to hiding my dearest friends like they were criminals I was ashamed to associate with.  That made me much more deplorable than living within four walls I could barely afford made superficially admirable.  It was imperative that I find a place I could comfortably afford and where Quincy, Holly, George, and Hannah were welcome.  

In the weeks that have lapsed since my last blog post (sorry about that), I've been moving and settling into my grandparents' old house near Western Lights.  In doing this, I've been forced to swallow the self-imposed stigma of renting cheaply from family, living closer to the city, and jiving with some seriously dated (think shag carpets and wooden paneling) decor.

In doing that, I've freed myself from incomprehensible burdens.  My living expenses don't deplete my bank account.  George and Hannah reside in a new cedar hutch in plain sight near my desk, and Holly and Quincy bask in the sunlight (or chase raindrops) from the bay windows.  I'm in constant contact with family and have space to host friends for dinner or overnight, as opposed to living in recluse as I had been.  Redecorating on a budget with help from Mom has been fun and creatively invigorating.  And it's so wonderfully nurturing to be back in the house anchored in some of my most joyous memories from my childhood.

Now that was worth it.  For sure.