There’s a great proverb (origin lost in my muddled mind) that goes: “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”
It’s always true. It’s ridiculous how always true it is. I didn’t plan to pull up my stakes and throw them across the country, and I sure didn’t plan to have them land in the West Village. But…they did.
After all the back and forth about the merits of mellow Brooklyn versus the rush of Chelsea, and the tramping upstairs to apartment after apartment after apartment….our broker was like, “Let’s go see this place in the Village, it came on the market yesterday.” And we looked askance at each other, because the West Village is like the most expensive place in the Universe but whatever, we were already almost there. And it was reallyverysmall, but charming. And…several hundred dollars cheaper than anything else we had seen. During the entire trip. Including everything in Brooklyn. Because of a hole in the space-time continuum? And we loved it.
I’ll write a longer post later about everything I’ve learned about apartment hunting in NYC this week (which probably isn’t all that much, but it sure seems like an awakening to me). For now, we’re just thrilled that we actually found something that we like. We signed the lease, the shoebox is ours, and I only have mild-to-moderate feelings of what am I doing Oh God this is real now.
I’m excited. The apartment is probably slightly smaller (square-footage-wise) than our place in Beacon Hill, but I think we can do it. We pushed through a lot in that tiny apartment: we studied for the Bar in the humid weight of summer with bags of frozen peas on our heads, and our friends slept on an air mattress that spanned the entire width of our living room. This place will be no different. Again, we’ll lug our groceries up four flights of stairs. (I think I’m understanding why the rent was such a deal, now.) I’ll frustrate myself, tripping over things that have no place, and then walk outside and do a the-hills-are-alive twirl at all the culture within stumbling distance.
This is the first time we’ll have normal relationship distance, not spending our days at the same school or office building. When we pick up our wine glasses at night and ask, “How was your day?” it won’t be a pleasantry. We actually won’t know the answer. And the branching out that we’re finally doing will make the tiny home seem right, I think. Go a little farther during the day, and you want to pull back even closer at night.
(Obviously, still feel free to send along any and all resources and tips on living in a mouse-sized apartment. Sans mice.)
(I hope. Oh God.)