Okay. Now that my living room furniture is getting more hits on Craigslist than I ever did on the matrimonial site, I am getting a little worried about letting strangers into my apartment. On the one hand, I do live across the hall from the front door and next to the elevator, so should one of my “buyers” really be a murderer, I would HOPE someone, anyone would hear my screams.
The other thing is that it is creepy to let unknown people into your “home” and my apartment is “my home” it is my private sanctuary in Manhattan that houses “my things” – it may not be perfect, but it suits me and I do okay in this space.
So there is a SMALL part of me that is nostalgic. The neighborhood, the apartment, the area, the life, the super has been good to me --- (excluding the crazy lady with the dogs, the ferret, the cockatoo, etc.). Not sad, mind you – this commute to Midtown and the UES is KILLING me. But you know, nostalgic, the way any good thing ends, not because it was not good, but because it was not right.
While the time has come to purge, to change, to reincarnate, it still feels a little like loss.
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