MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE

Way too often I feel like Myrna, in this beloved Sesame Street video from my youth.  Remember her? "My chair! (Myrna's chair.) My bookcase! (Myrna's bookcase.) My window curtains! (Myrna's window curtains.) My utterly 70's style wood burning stove like Janet Fossum had! (Myrna's utterly 70's style wood burning stove like Janet Fossum had.)"

I live in a crowded apartment in a crowded building in a crowded city, around which I commute on crowded transportation.  I choose to live this way.  And I get that as a result of this choice, I don't get a lot of personal space, space that is entirely, completely, and only mine.  But can I please have just a few of my own items? That is, things that belong to me and only me? Just a few little things. Please?


You want specifics? OK.  My concealer.  That's mine and only mine, no matter how little sleep you got or how red your your pimple is.  You never put it back, and if and when I do find it after hunting around for five minutes, it's got concealer fingerprints all over it. 


You do not need my Philosophy facial cleanser.  You just don't.  An argument could be made that I don't need it either, but that is a conversation for another blog entry.  At the very least, I bought it with my money, that I earned all by myself, so it is mine, mine, mine.


My socks, the gorgeous short white Costco ones with the designer "KB" logo, they are mine.  Do you realize you are not convincing when you profess not to realize the socks on your feet are not yours - an average of 4 times a week?

This does not even address everyone else's crippling inability to use rechargers.  The only time my iPad is put properly back in its place is when the power has been entirely drained.