For moving day I wore dungarees, because that's what the movies taught me
I moved house last weekend.
I have never moved so cleanly. It was almost...pleasurable? Turns out, when you organise things well enough, they tend to run rather smoothly. Who knew? I ordered moving bins (a two-week lease, from Gorilla Bins) and they arrived on a little dolly, steered by a handsome young black man who momentarily made me think of romcoms and meet-cutes. I packed things up with a good amount of common sense – kitchen stuff was put away with other kitchen stuff (revolutionary!), for example, and then labels (listing literally everything in every bin, rather than just vague directions eg 'Things I Never Used in My 32nd Year') were slapped onto each lid. My Marley twists were in two ponytails, and I was wearing black dungarees and my Converse, just like the movies taught me. I had packing paper (from when my stuff was shipped over from London a year ago), a craft blade, sellotape, and the sweet, hearty glow of someone who is doing things right. I lucked out with my movers too, short notice as it was (Dyno Moving, if you're interested – quick, efficient, easily the most affordable quote I got) and they ascended the three flights of stairs to my new apartment like they were carrying tiny, precious kittens, and not components of my bed frame, or my acrylic coffee table. They were jocular Slavs, my movers, and I liked them. After they left, I went back to my old apartment, and stared at it like I was the star of a sitcom, and this was the series finale. Then I finished cleaning the floors, packed up the router (because I need wi-fi until the last possible minute), and waved the old place goodbye. Because I am that much of a cheeseball.
Lease over. Keys returned. My first real apartment in New York, over and done with. I am now written on the city in a small, insignificant way.
One morning, in the weeks just before I moved out of the old apartment, I woke up to realise I had left my door unlocked overnight – no chain, no deadbolt. I've never done that before, not least because my apartment was on the ground floor of the building, and being a paranoid sort of lifelong city-dweller, I lived in real fear I would be burgled. But I had been so tired those last few weeks, I reasoned, It won't happen again.
But then two days ago, in the new apartment, I left my keys in the lock. When I claimed them, more 24 hours later en route to Target, the two little fluffballs on my keychain looked to me to be extra buoyant, as if to say, cheerfully, silly rabbit, what took you so long? I suppose I'm comfortable in this city now.
I should rein that in a bit.