THE PERILS OF A BOUGIE LIFE 

By Patricia Maxwell 

I have had the wonderful pleasure of hiding out and recovering from foot surgery at Jackson  Place in Culver City, a fantastic little collection of Airbnbs where the owners have spoiled me  beyond expectation. 

We originally came here over New Year’s to visit family and celebrate the holidays. Then I had  the heart flutter. Then the foot surgery. So what was meant to be a two-week stay turned into  three months. 

And somehow, through a game of checkers I seem to have won, I kept landing in one beautiful  place after another. 

Each apartment had its own personality.  

Each one more charming than the last.  

California beach luxury.  

Top-of-the-line appliances. Beautiful fixtures. A curated collection of comforts. I fell a little in love with every one of them. 

But each apartment only has a limited time slot. They’ve been rented. So I move. 

Room to room.  

Apartment to apartment. 

A strange little recovery tour through Jackson Place. 

And in two of those places there were, without question, the most luxurious commodes known to  man. 

I ask you—

Will I ever be able to go back? 

A motion light.  

A heated seat.  

An automatic lid.  

And a flush that happens twelve seconds after I exit. 

I did not know I needed such things. 

Now I find myself missing them. 

At night I wait for the light that does not come.  

For the seat that is now cold.  

For a flush so I don’t have to exert one ounce more energy than necessary. I even wait for it. 

It is ridiculous. 

And yet there I am—standing there, slightly betrayed by a perfectly normal toilet. 

All of this reminds me of a day at my husband’s university. I had ten minutes before a meeting,  so I ducked into the ladies’ room. 

There was nowhere to set down my purse. 

So I tossed it into the sink beside me while I washed my hands. 

Only the sink had a motion sensor. 

The water came on instantly and began pouring directly into my purse. 

I stood there for a beat too long—aghast. 

Then I lunged. 

Too late. 

Not ruined, but absolutely a purse full of water. 

My friend Nickolas told me he is dealing with his own version of this after visiting his mother,  who is living at the cutting edge of kitchen plumbing. At her sink, all it takes is a human touch. A  tap—and the water flows. 

Now he’s home, tapping his finger like a woodpecker, waiting for it to respond. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Nothing.

And that is how fast it happens. 

How fast we become used to crazy-ass luxuries. 

How fast the exceptional becomes the expected. 

Give a person a heated seat and twelve seconds later she is no longer grateful. She has standards. 

Apparently, I am now that person. 

still curious.