Endings are the worst. If they aren’t painful and tragic it’s as if they didn’t matter. When the ending is wrapped up in a box and placed in a truck before vanishing into the distance it’s like everything before never happened.
It’s the last night in my apartment. People keep asking if I’m excited to move, I think that’s the emotion or feeling that a person is supposed to feel. I am relieved that the stress of the lease ending and signing, the apartment hunt, that all of the mess is over…but I’m not excited. I’m sad to leave this apartment.
This apartment was the first apartment I had in Manhattan and it meant something in my head. When you’re from a small town people don’t really expect much, which is why half of the people I know are on their second marriage and third child. This was my goal and I met it, every painful, struggle filled moment.
Now I’m moving, yes, only twenty-two blocks downtown, but it’s not my Upper East Side. It won’t be my neighborhood, my wine store, my bodega. It’s new and foreign and maybe that’s the adventure of life, but don’t you ever just wish things wouldn’t change?
I’m sure I’ll end up content in the new apartment. It’s closer to friends and fun, avoids the 6 train and allows me to walk to more places. But this is still an ending and I hate endings as much as I hate change. So, we need a really big bottle of wine tomorrow because new doesn’t mean spontaneous happiness.