I will always remember my dorm days. From Weinstein (rags) to Gramercy (riches), living in an NYU dorm had its perks: access to dining halls, security guards that would always say, "Looks like you had a long day/night" and the rare feeling of community were just a few to name.
However, it wasn't until after this past month that I realized how simple it all was.
After receiving a million and a half emails about how if I didn't pay the housing deposit, NYU would kidnap my great aunt, my roommates and I decided it was about time to leave our humble abode and move out into the real world. Yes, we were going to find our own apartment and finally make that leap into the eternal abyss known as the East Village. No RAs, no signing people in, no floor meetings; being adult is the most exciting thing ever. At least that was what we thought.
First off, you have to come to the realization early that what you want, you cannot have. I have legitimately been laughed at when I asked brokers if they had any known furnished apartments in their listing. You come to cherish those small, extra-long blue beds that exist in every NYU dorm.
Second off, I'm beginning to develop Stockholm syndrome with these brokers. Every experience is the exact same: a smiling secretary gives you a sheet to fill out with your "basic information," which includes your name, phone number and an agreement to fifteen percent of your yearly rent as well as your future child's custody if need be. They type this all into their database, give an eyebrow raise or two and tell you to hold for a second while they call their confidants. Finally, you're off to see an apartment that is wildly overpriced but, according to the broker, a "good fit for you."
For whatever reason, I keep crawling back to these swanky NYC real estate agencies. But the only development I have had in the past weeks is a new horde of useless phone numbers in my contact list. Although it looks bleak and the migration to Brooklyn seems imminent, I cannot help but think that all of this stress and frustration is a rite of passage into Manhattan. There are 1.6 million people on this island and, like me, they all had to find a place to live, so I am not the first person in history to lose sleep over the thought that I might have to camp out in Union Square next year. Unfortunately, being handed a silver housing platter is in the past and there's nothing you can do about it. Going out on your own is a part of growing up and facing reality does not always include a meal plan.
