(For The Dad, who feels he is not mentioned enough in my blogs, and whose support–financial and otherwise–is one of the biggest chunks of what got me to and through New York. Put it on my tab.)
I type this in the seclusion of our sleeping loft while the BF supervises the movers packing up our apartment. Our place is empty but for an air mattress and two camping chairs. The unrolling and smacking of tape is the soundtrack that prevented my nap on the air mattress and motivated me to sit up and empty the word tank that has been filling up inside me for the past few days.
Our New York Goodbye has consisted of a series of interactions and events: quitting jobs, cleaning out desks, going to shows, meeting friends for dinner and drinks, attacking our bucket list together. A range of positives and negatives. Every morning for a week, I have woken up slightly hungover and overwhelmingly exhausted. We have both felt the pounds slowly add on. I am in need of detox, sleep, and many runs, none of which will happen in the next few days. When I think about how all of this activity is hinged on one relationship, I am once again in awe of how we are both upending and transferring our lives, which now don’t make sense without each other, in an act of faith: in each other, in our future, in the plan that is unfolding under the supervision of two invisible hands.
Because, let’s face it, moving is one gigantic pain in the ass.
If I were doing this with/for anyone but the BF, the relationship would crumble under the pressure and expectations placed upon it. Yelling and hurtful words would have been exchanged multiple times over by now, and tears would have washed my belongings out the door. Instead, we are constantly hearing phrases like “meant to be” and “falling into place” and we know it’s all true. Which is a balm for the sore muscles and its own form of rest in the midst of weariness.
Yesterday was my last day at NYU (insert Hallelujah chorus here). During my lunch break, I walked uptown to my office to pick up my last paycheck. The staff had gotten me a card and a fat Crumbs cupcake, and they showered me with hugs and well-wishes as I walked out the door. Cut to five pm, when I was cleaning out my locker at NYU and receiving scattered encouragement from a select few. Others for whom my leaving means more paperwork or whose as-yet unscheduled vacation plans/calling-in-sick now have a complicating factor were either muted or silent with their goodbyes. All of it was an affirmation of the decision we’ve made.
On the way home I stopped by the liquor store to pick up a bottle of champagne to celebrate the end of our New York employment history. We had two hours before dinner at Stanton Social and quite a bit of packing to do. The BF got home and immediately dove into the task: boxes unfolding and filling, suitcases spread out, wheels of organization turning in his head. As for me: I watched his stuff fill our studio apartment and I began to shut down. Can’t. Handle. Displacement. My body began to reject the second move I’ve endured in two weeks. The BF glanced at me and knew what was coming.
“I think I’ll just let you pack your stuff and I’ll do mine after dinner,” I told him.
He grinned knowingly. Within five minutes, I was on the couch with a glass full of champagne as Oprah’s interview with the cast of Twilight became the soundtrack for his packing.
A couple of hours later, fueled by strawberry vodka and french onion soup dumplings, I actually packed. A little, anyway. And the BF sat on the couch with his glass of champagne as Andy Garcia narrated the Lakers’ season highlights.
Now he has joined me in the loft as a cleaning lady worth her weight in gold works downstairs. In the thick of the moving a couple of hours ago, my stress and exhaustion hit a peak and I turned to him in panic. I needed to escape. He promptly went upstairs, blew up the air mattress, and covered it with a sheet and comforter. He did the rest of the heavy lifting while I went to lie–and calm–down. I climbed the stairs to the “restful place” (Darryl–The Office) he had created for me. I thought about how GB had listened patiently for years as I described broken relationships to him. I remembered how he had expressed his desire for me to find someone who helped me rest. In three months he will be officiating my marriage to the man who does just that.
For all the positives (support, heartfelt encouragement, parties) and negatives (judgment, immature hostility, sleeplessness) we’ve gone through to get here, there is one thing missing: doubt. Knowing you’re on the right path with the right person (one of whom is solidly pulling his weight, one of whom really likes cocktails and naps) is everything.
A few minutes before the movers left, I texted the BF from upstairs: Is it over? I knew the answer was no, but I also know that’s the best part. It’s only just beginning.