I’m moving, after 36 years. When I say I’m floored by it, I’m not just whistling Dixie. Overwhelmed, thrown, devastated, shaken and without a doubt, stirred to my core.
My building was bought two years ago by a huge company who eyes it with anything but love. Money, we certainly don’t have enough of it so lets put our heads together to glean more is the best way to describe it. Turns out though, the head man is a pretty nice guy considering he wants my home.
I’m a rent-stabilized tenant holding rights standing in their way, so they made me an offer. Two actually, and because of my health issues took them up on one surprising myself to no end. I’ve decided there are two of me. The one who stays fastened to all that’s familiar whether it’s to her benefit or not…like a polar bear clinging to an ice cube. Then there’s the all-knowing Susannah who gets the program quicker than anyone else. She actually scares me.
The place I’m moving to is beautiful…bigger, cleaner, has an elevator, dishwasher and a 24 hour doorman.
Of course change is the worst, for anyone. Having that rug pulled out from under you can put a girl, at least this one, right over the edge. So what if it’s threadbare…it’s yours and you’re comfortable on it, naked or otherwise. The landlord naturally doesn’t care about sentiment, and why should he….it’s business after all… just that you’re moving out of his way…finally. He’s unusually charming and handsome too, but a landlord just the same who smiles as he’s counting the days till you’re out.
I’m more than fortunate having him who’s big hearted, an anomaly in a situation such as this because if only you knew some of the stories. Tenants under surveillance….doors padlocked while they’re at work or on vacation. Threatening phone calls in the middle of the night. I’ve won a sweepstakes in comparison.
This new place resembles a stadium…maybe the Yankees are free for brunch, at least that’s what it looks like to me.
Luckily, I have two friends who are decorators with a warehouse filled with furniture the size of an airplane hangar who will help me furnish this opulent space. Right now I live in what I call a shabby-chic womb, I mean room, cozy and compact fit for one.
I should be in a little after Christmas. Better tell Santa I’m moving so any wine deliveries aren’t delayed, because Thin Girl is gonna need all the spirits she can get.