There are few things worse than moving. Since leaving college, I have moved six times. In ten years. This is part of the price one pays for being single. Then again, we get more free time and better stories. But I guess I can’t use the collective “we” anymore, since I am now practicing the art of being (cue violins) IN LOOOOOOVE. And being IN LOOOOOOVE means doing selfless things like helping my BF switch apartments. After all, my teeth and I are the reason he is staying in this city for another year.
He was just moving three blocks, so the logical plan was, “Piece of cake! We’ll do it ourselves instead of paying movers!” Cut to us hauling leather cushions and a mattress through a torrential downpour down Lexington Avenue. Providing entertainment for the Friday-night happy hour crowd at the restaurants we passed along the way. Wanting to hurt them. Wanting to grab that beer bottle, smash it against a wall, hold it up to their necks, and…
Oops! Where was I? Anyway, the move is complete and I didn’t even cry! And the apartment–so worth it. Now my BF lives in a non-doorman building (I LOVE not having to say hello to someone when I walk in) with a roof deck! Okay, not an actually finished and landscaped roof deck, but there is a roof with railing so we can’t fall off without jumping, and we are allowed to go up there! And that’s what we did Saturday night. We hung out underneath the lights of the Empire State Building with a bottle of Cava and our fresh-from-Bed, Bath and Beyond beach chairs. (Because hitting up the BBandB with the BF is another selfless something that people who are IN LOOOOOOVE do. Even on a Saturday.)
Sunday morning brought lower back pain and an apartment full of boxes to unpack. BF charged through them and ripped them open like a kid on Christmas morning. And I did something weird. I volunteered to wash all the new dishes, silverware, and glasses. This is weird because (a) I generally don’t like to “help” or “clean” or “contribute”, and (b) I hate sponges. Seriously–they are just germ receptacles. Magnets for bacteria. I hate them. But I used them. And you know what? I liked it. I stood there with my arms elbow-deep in suds and hot water, my fingers pruning up and Staph burrowing under my fingernails, and I got a goofy grin on my face and felt a weird wave of happiness wash over me. Since when was I ever this good of a girlfriend, or friend for that matter? I swiffered the entire apartment, for crying out loud.
That’s when I realized it had happened. The LOOOOOOVE I had been desperately seeking in bars and churches and once, online for had happened. Just shown up without me having to call or beg or email or text. Picked me up off the ground where I had passed out from exhaustion trying to find it. The proof was a sink full of dishes I couldn’t wait to wash. Would that disappoint the little girl who expected a white horse? HA! Who cares? If I were still living within the limits of my own expectations, I wouldn’t be writing this from inside my Manhattan apartment. Sure, it–and the island it sits on–may look small, but the reality is this: the smallest thing I’ve ever known (besides the, ahem, character of some dudes I won’t name) is the future I planned for myself before I started to know better.
(ed. note: remind the author of this positive perspective prior to the next time she leaves her apartment and has to deal with the actual city.)