I made my bed, now please don't lie on it.

My condo association held its annual party this past weekend. Actually, it was more a party for our condo president (the only other year-round resident) and vice-president (who lives near Dallas and only visits for the party and our annual meeting in January). Our much-of-the-year resident was on another of her many long trips, and the renter and I didn't invite anyone, so all the guests were friends of the pres. and v.p.

The v.p. and her husband just finished renovating and redecorating the condo which they own and rent. (Nicely done, much more neutral color scheme than their own condo, but I still don't share their tastes.) The guests then clamored to see how other units are decorated. Since I was taught to respect my elders, and since there were about two dozen of them at the party, how could I say no?

I warned them ahead of time that I was doing some spring cleaning (it's spring in Australia, so there), so my place wasn't really presentable. (On the other hand, it's the only one that actually looks lived in. The others resemble photos from magazines: pretty but uninhabited.) Naturally, they oohed and aahed about my rooftop garden, my kitchen, my private elevator. Naturally, I threatened to chop off their hands if they took any tomatoes. (Naturally, I didn't.)

An interesting thing, now that I've been in most of the condos, is that, even though I have the third largest unit, it feels like the biggest. Maybe it's the windows. Maybe it's the floor plan. Maybe it's my color scheme. Maybe it's my lack of ornaments/art/clutter (unless you cound the wall of bookshelves in my living room). Maybe it's because it's not a conglomerate of rooms so tiny that you need to go into the next one to change your mind. Maybe it's just that, being on the second floor, I get to feel superior over everyone else.