Movin' and Shakin'

As we speak, Jesus Garcia and his two minions are loading all of my earthly belongings into a long Mayflower truck parked a full block away (as they keep reminding me). I had been very worried about this move, so I'm happy to report that I like Jesus. He seems sincere, and he will be driving my stuff from Brooklyn to Boulder his very own self. This is good.

He tried to get me to sign a piece of paper that waived my right to insurance, which is something I've already paid through the nose for. Less good, this.

But I told him I just couldn't sign it, showed him on my estimate where I had paid for FVP, or Full Value Protection, and he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Okay." We're good again.

Note that my apartment is half-empty and it is only 8:14am, when they weren't supposed to even be here until 8. This is because Jesus showed up a full hour earlier than his window. (This appears to be a running theme with him; see below.) This would have been fine except that I decided to have a final hurrah out with my girls last night. I didn't get to sleep until 2am, so I literally showed up to the door with my hair awry and my pajamas (a.k.a. Mom's Famous Homemade Pants) in full action. That was pretty.

In blinding opposition to what one hears about movers--i.e., that your stuff could go missing for weeks at a time--it appears that Jesus errs on the side of early delivery. He wants to know if he can deliver this upcoming Saturday or Sunday. (If Sunday, can it happen earlier in the day, so he can still watch the Superbowl?) My official window doesn't start until the following Friday, and I didn't even know if I'd be there then. So this change of events is unnerving. It makes me even more eager to find an apartment in Boulder later this week when I'm out there. That, or it means that I'll have them deliver my stuff to storage, and that I'll have to bribe SL, JG & GB to help me haul it to my new apt later in the month.

OY. Moving is complicated.

January the Twenty-Seventh

Today, January 27, was my last day of work at H. Books Inc. This is a significant date for several reasons. It's the last day I will ever: 1) take the subway to work; 2) work in the big, fancy, marble-lobbied National Television Company building; and 3) have therapy with the wonderful, kind-hearted ND.

But it's also a significant date because today marks exactly seven years since I moved to New York City. On a very cold January 27, the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Nine, I boarded a plane in the Midwest and deplaned at LaGuardia. It might as well have been another planet. I directed the cab to take the BQE, just as my friend JL had instructed, and I watched with a mixture of delight and fear as we swung out over the river and all of lower Manhattan came into view.

[Interesting aside: Once I got to JL's place--above Sahadi's, in Cobble Hill--I did not pass go. I went directly to Duane Reade and purchased a hair coloring kit promising "chunky" blonde highlights. I wanted to look my best for my first day of work, see. I think you can guess how that one turned out.]

On paper, I came to the Big Apple for a job as Editorial Assistant at A. Books. But let's be honest. I came here out of sheer stupidity. I didn't know better; I had no idea what I was getting myself into. All I knew was that I didn't want to return to the Midwest, and I didn't love my college town of Washington, DC, either. When I heard from a friend of my future brother in law that there was such a thing as publishing, and that it happened in New York, I knew where I was going.

That was about all the thought I put into it. I vaguely recall deciding I'd be here for at least a year, and then I'd use those hard-won (and damn good, if I do say so) LSAT scores to get me some more learnin.'

But "maybe a year" stretched into seven. And here I am, all these long, wonderful, hard, evolutionary, exciting, stressful, chaotic years later--leaving.

January 27. Who knew?

Decisions, decisions.

When I heard about the job in Boulder, I thought for sure I was going to take it. But once I was actually faced with the decision, I discovered it was a very difficult one. In fact, I would rank making this decision among the more painful experiences I've had in my life so far. I wrestled with it over the same two week period in which I turned 30, so I was already emotionally volatile. But even still, I think it's safe to say that I was crying a lot. I cried in the car. I cried in the airport. I cried myself to sleep Christmas night. I wondered if my body was telling me I shouldn't make this move. I mean, if this was the right job, why was I leaking so much?

But in the end, despite the tears, I realized it was time. Time for a big change, a new life, a new me. Once I made the decision, I knew it was the right one. I will be trading skyscrapers for--well, sky. Attitude for laidbackitude. Subways for Subarus.

Claustrophobia for agoraphobia? Perhaps. But something tells me it's going to be worth it. Stay tuned to this site, friends, and you'll find out right along with me.

And so it begins.

New life, new blog.

In approximately a week I will leave my New York life--my job, my friends, my East Coast identity, my guitar teacher--and trek 1,800 miles to my new home, a small town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. This blog is intended to document this journey, from city mouse to country mouse, and to keep you informed of my progress!