I spent Sunday night with my 22-year-old daughter, watching the Golden Globes. She stuck around long enough to see Lena Dunham and "Girls" pick up awards, then headed home to her apartment in Uptown, where her roommate and the "Girls" season 2 premiere were waiting.
Like the characters on "Girls," my daughter doesn't make a lot of money and can barely afford her rent. Her apartment is nothing glamorous, but it's in the heart of Uptown. That makes it perfect in her eyes.
It's also a magnet for her friends and their friends, which is both good and bad. Everyone wants to hang out there, which is fun at happy hour but kind of a drag at 1 a.m. when random acquaintances want to crash on her couch rather than pay for a cab.
Hearing her stories -- and watching "Girls" -- reminds me of my own early 20s, and the "perfect" and not-so-perfect places I called home during those dramatic years.
There was the duplex in Prospect Park, the one I shared with my two best friends from college. I couldn't afford a car, or even much food, but at least I got skinny.
Then there was the duplex in Seward that I shared with two other friends and an army of mice. (Couldn't wait to get out of that one!)
My first solo apartment, at age 24, was actually in a senior citizens' apartment complex, where my comings and goings were closely monitored by self-appointed surrogate grandparents.
Finally, at 25, I found my "perfect" home -- a freshly renovated century-old house with a built-in buffet, pocket doors and a fireplace. It was still a rental, but a palace compared to my previous dwellings.