It was 90 degrees inside my apartment. And I use the term “apartment” loosely. It was, at best, an elevated closet I had been living in for five months. Sweat dripped down every crevice as I lay on my beanbag chair that had been turned into a summer nap station. Two fans were pointed on my body, and the patio door was wide open. “I can make this work,” I whispered to myself. I turned to fill a glass of water. There wasn’t a need to stand up. The sink was only a foot away, and I had just settled into Netflix with no chill. From where I lay roasting, I could see my bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, closet, and home office. Welcome to my micro-studio.
My Seattle living space was about 100sqft. It featured a small carpeted area with a folding table for my office, a ladder that led up to my lofted twin bed, a tiny sink & cabinet combo for food preparation, a sliding door leading to a balcony that is larger than my inside living space, and a bathroom better suited for hobbits. There’s a shared kitchen three floors down. This is the hip trend in urban living, according to people who say such things. And the hodgepodge of transient millennials, university students, and middle-aged divorcees in my building seemed to agree.