Signing the lease for my first apartment is one of those pivotal adult moments I’ve had on my checklist for years. It’s right up there between meeting Lance Bass and doing a back flip as one of the things that will make me a fully quantifiable adult. But once the paperwork was finished and I sat back and started talking about it with my future roommate and fellow Edge writer, Michael Haas, a shocking realization dawned on me: My new home has no name.
Since freshman year I’ve had something to call the place I lived. First I was a resident of Finegan and then for the past two years I resided in the Delta Sigma Phi house. Going beyond that, my room even had a name. Last year, my roommate and I called our third-floor dwelling the Lomp as a twist on the traditional attic nomenclature of loft. After my roommate moved out and I was left alone, I dubbed my residence the Owl’s Nest as a play on Batman’s Bat Cave. So it only seemed natural that my new second-floor apartment gets a new name to really make it feel like my home.
Naming a home is not a simple thing. Michael and I wasted several hours going through different names with different connotations. I embraced my inner nerd by suggesting such things as the TARDIS or Serenity. Michael went with the slightly more educated suggestion of the Senate or Forum. Of course, neither of us could agree on any of those – too bizarre for him, too boring for me. For a half-second we even considered naming our new fortress Dennis Quaid.
With so many stressful things in my life, it’s nice to have a task that has no weight to it. Something that’s important to me and me alone. (Well, maybe it’s important to Michael too.) Nevertheless, we still have a few months to come up with a name before we move in. As of right now, I’m leaning toward the Louvre, but I’m always open to suggestions.
Feel free to offer your own suggestion in the comments below.