Our home since March 2018 is about to be pulled up from under us, right when we were starting to adjust the furniture to our liking and get comfortable.
But we – by this I mean me because Sandy never gets this way – have grown lazy and fat residing in one place…
Just kidding. Actually I may have lost a couple pounds (I’m weighing in at 129 lbs) from clomping up the 5 flights of stairs of our walkup apartment in Chelsea, 6 fights if I’m dumping recycling or running a clothing wash in the communal washer and dryer in the basement.
The Fairy Tale Apartment: Brother Grimm’s Style Because It Actually Has a Dark Beginning
Our Uber generous landlord – who offered us the apartment at no charge, but that I insisted we pay $1200/month to to cover utilities and co-op common charges – is coming home soon. Date is undisclosed, but forewarned.
It’s thrown me for a loop.
Is he coming home in the next month? Two? Three?
Or is he going to complete his first snowbird winter (he’s been away renovating a condo in FL he just acquired as a second home)?
I don’t ask as I don’t want to put pressure on him. He’s done more than enough by giving us a break from our incessant travel between petsit apartments. After nearly 3 years of living home-less in NYC, while juggling professional careers and plenty of side gigs, I had begun to pray for a longer term situation to our nomadic lifestyle in December of 2017.
I didn’t want an apartment. AKA I didn’t want to pay $3000/month for a 1 bedroom apartment in Manhattan or prime Brooklyn. Beyond the pricing, any time we looked at studio apartments with a realtor, I had to fight this panic attack, suffocating feeling of a lease that would dictate we stay put in one tiny space for a year at a time. The act of looking at furniture to purchase for our new domicile literally induced a need for me to vomit. I threw up the midnight snacks I inhaled at 1am, emotionally eating, as I thumbed through page after endless page on realtor and Gypsy Housing web pages. All of the apartments sucked. They were tiny. The realtor’s fees were high. My teeth were beginning to rot with each acidic wave of bile as I overate and panicked, causing me to feel ill and upheave pounds of bread, cereal, soy milk, and peanut butter. I could not go on much longer without needing a new set of teeth.
And then this apartment opportunity
It fell into our laps at just the right time. Our petsit client turned personal confidant and friend wanted someone to care for his home while he took care of some personal items, and he needed an extra-ordinary tenant who would abscond any time he wanted to come back and spend some time in his apartment. We were a natural fit!
Back to Our Grymm Beginnings
I vomited last night. But not for the same reason as the last.
Yes. I’m emotionally eating.
Yes. I’m stressed.
But for a different reason. I know it’s time for us to leave NYC. We were supposed to leave in November, but our architect fucked up plans and city permitting have 6 months and counting delayed the renovation of our neighbor’s house, which we purchased in March to add on 4 bedrooms to our Bnb in Jersey City. So we’ve been in limbo with this, and its great financial burden, and of course I’m not knowing when our landlord will return.
I’m kind of in a panic of needing to pack up all my neatly stacked clothing (which I’ve acquired too much of. Thanks a lot vanity) and finely collected spices and staples. I don’t know where we will go next and where we will live in the intervening time between our landlord returning to the apartment we share with him and the Bnb being completed enough for us to leave.
My husband said I could leave ahead of him. He’ll manage the renovation of the Bnb with the contractors, but I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what career I want next. I don’t know where I want to wake up every morning. I just know it isn’t here.