The last little bit to move at my old place.
A “move” is often the term used for a given course of action, particularly one involving bravery or bravado and occurring after a prolonged period of inaction.
Similarly, one’s approach with a romantic interest may be referred to as his/her “move”.
This even includes moves that one has planned well in advance and will ultimately result, like the Jeffersons pictured above, in a move on up.
Imagine then, the perspective of one forced to move against his/her will. This is the very situation I now find myself in. Not because I threw too many parties or trashed my apartment or was otherwise a horrible tenant.
Rather, they call it “renoviction” – a practice that occurs often enough in Vancouver, British Columbia to warrant its own regionally-specific Wiktionary entry:
I was dressed typically for me on a rainy Saturday, which is a step up from still being in my pajamas, although an admittedly small step.
In this case: fleece pants, a faded tank top, and merino wool lumberjack socks, with my hair, inasmuch as my dreads are always “done” since they don’t really change, hanging lank down my back from an earlier shower rather than pulled back or pinned up as I normally wear it.
Needless to say, I hadn’t been planning to go outside anytime soon, let alone to stand huddled amongst my neighbours while my building potentially burned to the ground.
And my building has had a fire in during the time I’ve lived here … the very night I moved in, no less.
Not exactly movin’ on up.
Admittedly, apartment living isn’t all bad: it makes it possible for those not blessed with boatloads of money to live in urban areas.
As well, as an environmentalist, I’m definitely in favour of the densification that results from apartment living, as well as the concentration of resources like transit and amenities like shops and cafés that tend to spring up around apartment buildings.
However, when you live in an apartment (or condo, or university residence, or any other such non-detached living space), compared to living with your family, you can’t tell the people living among you what to do.
Correction: you can, but your family is far less likely to tell you to go f*ck yourself.
A Frame Around Infinity 