So I’m moving. Or rather I’m attempting to move? In the process of trying to wrap my head around moving to avoid financial ruin is a better way to say it…and I have already taken some steps. I called my real estate broker late yesterday afternoon and he wasted no time scheduling our first formal meeting for later that evening. He stopped by last night to help me begin the process. He presented me with three crisply printed, logoed pieces of white paper housed in a sturdy navy folder with gold embossed lettering. “Standard issue paperwork,” he said as I slid my index finger over the smooth gold letters. He promised absolute exclusivity to hungry buyers and he confidently promised that I’d earn a nice tidy profit. Fourteen years just went by in a blink—my son Matty was only seven when we moved in and now he’s about to graduate from college! (That in and of itself is enough to occupy my scattered thoughts.) G actually represented the seller when I bought this place and we have been cordial neighbors ever since because he’s a resident here too. He shares my address for this gorgeous albatross that I can no longer afford. I was already struggling to keep up with the massive overhead and then I lost my job last March and I haven’t worked since.
I remember my first look into this empty space and wow! Brand new building, amazing appliances, floor to ceiling windows, spectacular building amenities—an indoor pool for Matty and a gym for me, a roof-deck, and a billiards room! The unit boasted ample closets and sat on a fancy Penthouse floor with unobstructed City views and tons of light. And there was a ten-year tax abatement so I could actually afford to live here for the first few years. I had arrived! And the ol’ girl had some work done even though she looked camera ready when we moved in. Her backsplash was immediately brightened up with white subway tile and a new fixture lightened up the U-shaped kitchen. She got an entire living room wall of discrete built-in storage cabinets in shiny white with slim silver hardware. I built a linen closet by stealing half of my son’s bedroom closet, closing off the wall in his room and moving the door to grant hallway access to the space—a genius idea.
After dreaming about it for seven years, I also built a custom closet over the never-used, free-standing bathtub in my ensuite bath to house luggage, extra bedding, and pillows, long hanging dresses, designer handbags, scarves, and boots. I even had a safe crafted at eye level to house my rows of fancy baubles in secure velvety bliss. Two giant TVs hung magically in the living room and master: the unsightly wires carefully hidden behind reinforced walls. Curved moldings added finesse to my closet doors. New doorknobs and silver drawer-pulls elevated the overall look from simple to simply stunning.
“Prepare to move in ninety days.“
G loved the apartment. “The place is in great shape. A buyer will love it. The custom closets are genius. The colors are gorgeous. It looks like a Park Avenue Penthouse. It will photograph beautifully, and it will sell. Even in this market. Prepare to move in ninety days.” Holy shit. The clock was already ticking, and this idea was barely twenty-four hours old.
And just as I’m teary eyed, grappling with the life decision to leave Manhattan, my home for twenty-six incredible years, the place I got married (a stunning New York City landmark building in SoHo on a picturesque fall day), got divorced (a plain, manilla envelope via USPS delivered that happy news on a non-descript weekday), raised my son, made my fortune (ok, obviously not big enough of a fortune or I wouldn’t be moving), ran a marathon, wrote ten restaurant guides and a novel, dragged myself to hundreds of bad dates until I met the love of my life (love you, Michael!), enjoyed thousands of fabulous meals, made amazing life-long friends, watched Tony Award winning Broadway shows year after year, had incredibly challenging jobs, walked thousands of miles, snapshotted Manhattanhenge when the sunset aligned perfectly with the east/west major streets, splurged hundreds of thousands in retail therapy, and loudly rejoiced through tears of pure joy and unbelievable relief with so many of my fellow New Yorkers when Joe Biden won the 2020 election, my fucking neighbors in the apartment directly above me insisted on dragging most of their 600-pound furniture across the floor while their three rabid kids dropped and scattered marbles everywhere and pets that must be on roller skates crashed into every wall. That’s my downstairs opinion of what must be happening up there. Maybe I won’t miss life in the big city quite as much as I’m thinking I might. I bet the marble droppers won’t miss me.
How can I imagine a life without the mad search for new tech friendly running gloves at Lululemon or not stocking up on tissue turtlenecks in Frosty Olive or Dark Spruce at J.Crew to wear under my bulky coat when I meet P in Central Park to clock our miles on the cold, dreary winter mornings? No more schlepping groceries .75 miles from the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle home, fearful of cracking the eggs or cursing that I forgot to bring my own single use plastic bags to avoid the new five cent bag charge which isn’t significant but drives me crazy to pay? No more subway ride game of rats and roaches while I wait for the train. (Spoiler alert! Way more rats than roaches down there.) No more Gray’s Papaya dogs and pineapple juice just because the smell drives me mad with food lust and why resist a $5 bad habit?
I could have a life with palm trees, no state income tax and live close to my parental units (not too close, but close enough to say hi regularly to each of them without having to fly in for the visit). I can move south to the sunshine state. They have Walgreen’s there. And Neiman Marcus (assuming I’ll eventually get a job and need something decent to wear). I’d still be on Eastern Standard Time. Is it still called that? I’d need more regular pedicures. I’d be able to toss my down comforter that suddenly sneezes out mountains of feathers when I make the bed. I’d put my sixteen gently used bathing suits to good use. And my four pair of $5 GAP flip flops would get serious rotation. (The blue and white speckled ones with the red toe separator are my favorite.) Happy New Year, New York. I think I’m moving to Florida.
jenslittleblackbook.com 