But it felt exhausting, performative.Īpartment was about the absence of social exchange, freedom from measuring myself against others through external determinants of my likability, my goodness, my value. My retorts were quick, I chose dare over truth, could make anyone laugh. I experimented with a curling iron and lipstick, high heels from Payless.
I joined my friends in “normal” teenage chatter: boys we liked, our weddings, outfits circled in magazines. I didn’t know anyone there was no romance. But in Apartment, I pretended I was renting my bedroom from strangers and that I lived there alone alone alone. I’d talked on the phone and bustled about like I’d seen women do. Playing house a few years prior, I’d cooked dinner and scolded imaginary children while waiting for my husband (played by a giant stuffed bear) to come home. When I was already beyond the acceptable age for make-believe, I invented a game called Apartment.
