I had a very hard time concentrating at work yesterday, when it was, without question, the day I should have been on top of my game. It’s fine, though. Because if I get fired, I’ve been offered a bathtub to sleep in back in Boston.

Meanwhile, the Cable God did his magical thing last night and in less than five minutes, I was back in high speed heaven. Pure happiness in less than five minutes and it didn’t require AA batteries.

Funny thing is, my computer turns on, the internet starts coursing through it, Instant Message boxes start popping up and know what? I put up an away message and went to read my book. My mother would be so proud.

That’s all I got. Go now.

Just moments ago, as I was standing under my bathroom skylight, I heard the crackle of thunder. It made me tilt my head and listen more closely, wondering why it was the first I’d heard of it all evening. Then I went around my small apartment opening windows and shutting off fans (turned on largely to drown out the intermittent banging of heating pipes) and sat in the dark living room to listen.

At first it was nothing but quiet. Until my ears adjusted, opened and took in all the elements of quiet.

Rain on the skylight, on the plastic of the window air conditioner, on the metal of the fire escape. My first fire escape.

A bit of far off thunder.

A horn honking faintly (probably a taxi), as city sounds wove themselves in with the natural ones.

Wind. Air traffic. The squeaky breaks of the M86.

I leaned my head against the sueded soft arm of my couch, smiled and breathed in the city breeze. My first city breeze.

Or at least the first one I’ve taken time to appreciate.

Detour this morning: The nicest pair of shoulders, appropriately covered with a very dark suit just ahead of me in Grand Central station, took a right where I usually go straight. Without half a thought in my silly little head, I steered right and followed the very nice shoulders through the lobby of a certain financial institution. The shoulders were attached to a nice face, which in turn produced an equally nice voice that “after you”ed me through a set of glass doors. I thanked the nice shoulders and wondered how my hair was holding up in this humidity.

Be stalking you soon.

I had another ‘emergency’ yesterday involving pale pink shoes and matching wallet. In my defense, the wallet was on sale, which totally justifies its purchase, even had it not been the same beautiful shade of pink as the emergency shoes.

My commute each morning involves three blocks pre-train walking, and two blocks post-train walking. In those five blocks, I pass two (2) Nine West stores. It’s a mighty miracle in and of itself that my PMS (Post Move Shopping) hasn’t produced more random clothing/accessory purchases. Incidentally, that white suit in Banana Republic? Next week it will be mine. Yes, my precioussss. It will.

Incidentally. Incidentally. Incidentally. Without question, it’s my favorite word at the moment. I had to restrain myself to use it only once in the above paragraphs. I don’t even look for excuses to say it. It just pops right out… incidentally!

Try using it in a sentence today. You’ll be so glad you did.

I spent last night fully embracing my aloneness. Leftover Chinese take-out, my new favorite sex-omedy, BBC’s Coupling (on loan from the v. generous Ari), half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s (returning a container of ice cream to the freezer unfinished used to provoke “Lightweight!” from Roommate) and in bed with a good book by 11.

And this morning, still foggy from more wacky dreams (thankfully, Richard Dreyfuss has stopped appearing trying to give me some silly jade ring), I nearly confused a bottle of generic Aleve for a bottle of generic Tylenol PM.

Let’s hope that fog lifts, hmmm?

PS. The Cable Gods are coming tonight. Yay Internet!

PPS. If you are at least six feet tall and can hold a paint brush, I need you. NEED. Am willing to bribe. I bake well. And I kiss at least as well as I bake. Just so you know.

Two new least favorite words heard in New York City?

Unavoidable Delays.

In other news, I think I’m totally going to nail my audition for Sibyl II, Return of the Madness. As evidenced by the past few days, I think I’ve really become one with the character. Motivation found. I can’t wait to discuss it on Inside the Actor’s Studio some day.

I’m counting down the days until I get a paycheck. It’s been nearly a month since I’ve seen one of those, what with the week off and things taking their sweet time in accounting. Seriously, it’s not much comfort to walk around this grand city knowing you have exactly $4.64 to your name after UHaul and Ralph the Mover got done with you. Actually, it’s exactly four dollars right now. I bought a York Peppermint Patty. It couldn’t be helped.

Money doesn’t stress me out. But the lack of it sure does a doozy. And I only pull out the credit card for emergencies. Like, how I really needed a manicure yesterday. Really. It was an emergency. A well-timed manicure can be like the Jaws of Life to this really distressed gal.

Plus, getting my nails cut down does everyone a favor. In yesterday’s state of mind, it wasn’t completely out of the question for me to go claws out and really do some damage.

Repeat after me: I am not a harm to myself or others.

Dear Reader: Please Note, After this, there shall be no more uninformed discussion of Kitten on your part.

Things you must understand

1. Kitten was born on the street. The only reason I got her home was because she was too sick to run.

2. There are only two people who have ever held Kitten. Myself and the vet, when Kitten is either bound in a towel or tranquilized.

3. There are maybe three people, besides myself who have ever petted Kitten. And three or four others she’s allowed within a yard or two to play with her.

Kitten is terrified of other people. She is not hanging out with some little old lady drinking cream from a saucer, she has not allowed herself to be seen, much less caught by anyone who would take her to a shelter. She has not turned up back at my old house to eat the food, or crawl into her cat carrier that I left for her in my one moment of hopeless impracticality. The suggestion that she is somewhere waiting for me is unbearable. I am too far away to search every porch she may be hiding under. And the very idea that I should be makes me feel extraordinarily guilty. So can we cut it with all that?

Kitten has become a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow. I wake up wondering where she is. Every. Single. Morning.

I have called for her when I got out of the shower, inexplicably forgetful of the fact that she isn’t there.

So if anyone has feelings of loyalty toward her, be reassured I’ve got ‘em a hundredfold, but I’m also mired in the reality that she is not coming back.

On the way to work this morning, I decided the only thing to do is get a new creature. A kitten, a turtle, a pet rock. I don’t care. Just something, because I can’t stand to talk to my own echo. At least I knew when Kitten was ignoring me, because her little ears would twitch.

Maybe it’s that I need someone to take care of besides myself. I mean, self-maintenance only takes up an hour or so of my day and then there’s… a whole lotta nothing. I’ve had pet boys, but I don’t really want one of those right now. They come with their own set of rules and prerogatives and honestly, I ain’t got the energy for that shit these days. But a kitten? SO very doable.

I was almost convinced, after an afternoon in Central Park, that I should really just jump on the baby bandwagon. You know, procreate if only to have some little peanut-sized bundle to take to the Park in a nine hundred dollar stroller. To deck out in Baby Gap shoes and bedeck with ridiculous nicknames. Yiddle One. Stinky Face. Squeedunk. Monty. Whatever.

But then there’s day care, and strained peas and the actual childbirth, which sorta complicates matters. Not to mention the inescapable widening of already generous hips. Baby got back? And then some.

At any rate, the apartment does lack a certain… well, it lacks many things, the most noticeable of which being something to say, “Stop ruining my sofa!” to. So, maybe a stop at the SPCA this week wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Cause, um, I’m not really in the market for a nine hundred dollar stroller.

I spent yesterday in a fairly low-key manner.

I dropped in at the paint store to pick up a pint of new linen white (eggshell) and to tell Andrew that yes, I’d have coffee with him. Andrew being the fella who works at my friendly nieghborhood paint store, that I’d “maybed” earlier in the week.

I bought groceries. And Gerber daisies.

I took my book to Central Park where I sat in the sun (with intermittent passing local cloud cover) reading for a few hours.

Then I went home and let it get dark on me.

I paced my small apartment, having put on yet another movie I didn’t watch, exchanged a few meaningful phrases with voicemails of friends and family. And waited for none of them to call back. It was saturday night.

I took a hot bath. I made tea.

And then I sat in my bedroom, missing Kitten and Roommate and wondering what the fuck I have just done. Why am I here? Why have I exchanged everything I knew to feel cut off? To be the abandoned and the abandoner all at once?

How many of these wonderfully dark moments am I going to have before this all makes sense? Where nothing is real, except maybe feeling like I’ve made some tragically stupid trade — a handful of beads for the island of Manhattan. Well, last night, I wanted my silly beads back. I haven’t traded up. I’ve just traded. And I wanted to undo it… to undo the move which lost me my little furry pain in the ass Kitten and separated me from all that is familiar and normal.

I should be embarassed to say I cried myself to sleep. But what the fuck. That’s what happened. Because I don’t know what I’ve done. And I want to undo it.

Or maybe that’s just the passing local cloud cover talking.

Lunch this afternoon with the incomparable Brian was… incomparable. Duh.

And tonight, giggles in a lounge-y atmosphere with some pretty fine blogging folks.

The rest of the weekend forecast calls for loads of R&R.

Until the cable gods get my modem installed on Wednesday, it will be another weekend cut off from the on-line world. Never fear, we’ll be back with your regularly scheduled nuerotic escapades on Monday.

I sat in the bathtub crying, knowing he was sitting in a restaurant somewhere in the Village, waiting for me. I also knew he’d understand. Or at the very least, forgive me at some point down the road.

I cried until I was done — until my own mind said, This is fucking ridiculous. Then I got out of the tub, got dressed and painted the bedroom.

I got my first piece of real mail yesterday. It’s always nice to see your name in real handwriting, I think. And pulling the package from the mailbox where it was crammed to fill every inch of its tiny space, I knew what was inside. A few tears leaked out in the elevator on the way to my apartment, and when I opened it, that’s when the real crying began. My father’s package contained one small stuffed lamb and… Cadbury eggs. Not the miniatures ones, granted, but his note did say a man with four daughters may have a hard time remembering the details.

Full of loneliness and self-loathing and worn down by nights of half-sleep and disturbed dreams (I’ve dreamt about Richard Dreyfuss twice now), I filled the bathtub and hoped that Will wouldn’t be too upset with me. I turned off my cell phone, knowing that if loneliness was my issue, I was certainly doing nothing to fix it. And that’s just how I wanted it. I needed a bit of time to wallow.

And so I did.

Later that evening, painting done, I had dinner and a beer (the beer being a kind contribution from a previous visitor), and settled in on the sofa to watch Notting Hill. By the time Ari dropped round with a most excellent house-warming gift, I was restored to my cheery self. And with the sunrise, feeling much more constant and alive.

There’s a Psalm (Psalm 30, I think) that I remember from my religious days that goes something like this:

Weeping may last for the night
But joy cometh in the morning

Even someone with severe religious alergies can appreciate the solace in that. I mean, really, there isn’t anything that a good cry, a decent night’s sleep and a belly full of breakfast can’t make even a wee bit better.

I did forget to bring my lunch, though. So, I’m gonna have to go out. Anyone wanna join me? I’m done crying, I swear.

Standing at the corner of Lexington and 86th Street this morning, waiting for the light to change, a couple to my right caught my eye. They were in their late forties, maybe early fifties, and she, a good foot shorter than he, had her face tilted up toward his. He was tracing the outlines of her lips with his thick fingers, fixing her lipstick. Making sure she’d colored in the lines. Job done, he squeezed her chin and gave her a kiss on the forehead. The light changed, and we all moved on.

All the while, Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You, Babe” played on my headphones.

It was a moment of unbelievable serendipity, followed quickly by another. This time, a mother and son on the 4 Express train. He played with the cross around her neck; she licked a thumb to smooth his eyebrow. Sonny and Cher were wrapping up,

Then put your little hand in mine
There ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb

At Duane Reade this morning, I spied the Easter candy and made a quick pass down the aisles searching for Cadbury Mini Eggs. When I didn’t find them, I had a brief pity party and left the store. I’ve never even had to buy my own Mini Eggs. You see, they’re as much a part of me as the brown eyes and freckles. I do love the Cadbury Mini Eggs. And every Easter, they seem to find their way to me. My sister. A coworker. Boys. Even J has been insightful enough to hunt them down for me.

And because, perhaps, serendipitous moments come in threes, the first email I read this morning was from Harris.

h.
i better see you soon
or else i will be at you doorstep faster than you can say mini eggs
got it?
good.
h.

p.s.-i fucking miss you

That doesn’t put the delicious Cadbury Mini Eggs in my greedy little hands, but it does make a girl feel loved. I mean, I can find the candy on my own. It’s just nice to be thought of.

I got you to hold my hand
I got you to understand

Babe.

It started out innocently enough. One stop on the express train after work to get a few supplies for the new apartment — armed with my list:

Hangers
Mop
1 set King-size pillowcases
C batteries
Dish rack

Simple. But when I got there, it was like opening Pandora’s Box. You know, only with a little less evil. Diet Pandora’s Box, I suppose.

So there I am, my list of necessary household items functioning more as a jumping off point for spending negotiations, and my cart starts filling as though by itself. The folks at Bed Bath & Beyond are so helpful, that I’m finding everything I need and want. Better said, suddenly, the things I wanted were becoming the things I needed. Things I certainly could not live without.

A new Brita? Surely! Forget that I’ve been drinking Manhattan tap water for ages and never acquired any intestine-devouring illnesses. Who’s to say that MY tap won’t be the one mysteriously infected with Mad Cow Disease?

Two sets King-size pillowcases. On sale. You hear me? On sale means you’re not allowed to get just one.

Throw blanket for the club chair. Yeah, I know I have one somewhere. But it’s sage green. And um, sage green doesn’t go with the new red wall.

Shower curtain hooks. Olive oil bottle. Desk chair. Hand towels. A dozen hangers. Batteries. Mop. Over-the-door hangers. Bathroom soap dispenser. Bathmat. Vase.

There should have been some sort of intervention at that point. Maybe if I’d collapsed to the linoleum floor screaming, “Make it stop!” I’d have been escorted off the premises by a member of the ultra-friendly BB&B staff. Or perhaps it was too late and I was just too far gone to rescue.

A few hundred dollars later, and I was in a taxi going home, my receipt mocking me from my purse.

“Silly woman,” it said. “You forgot to buy a dish rack.”

Which, we know, means I have to go back. But I don’t think I should go alone. In fact, I am going to need assistance.

Someone’s going to have to loosen the restraints so I can pay.

I had always maintained that if I were going to pick up and move to New York, I wouldn’t do it with less than $10,000 in savings. I would live in Manhattan. I would have my own apartment. And I would not eek by.

I would be done eeking by that point.

And in all truthfulness, for all my talk about moving to New York, I never thought I’d actually do it.

But as a purveyor of self-fulfilling prophecies, here I am, watching the sun chase shadows across Fifth Avenue’s face, thinking I should be more careful about what I say. Not that this has been a mistake by any means. Aside from the heartbreak that has been losing the one thing I cared about without any measure of selfishness (Oh, don’t cry! Jesus. Get it together!), and a far sight less that ten grand in the bank, everything has unfolded exactly as it should.

I have a cozy apartment in a convenience-laden neighborhood (one convenience being the neighbors themselves), a demanding and satisfying job and some truly amazing and supportive friends.

I should be pleased with myself, I think.

I will admit that living alone is taking adjustment. Even when roommate was traveling, I had Kitten to yammer at in the mornings as I stumbled around getting ready for work. This morning, I had to fill the silence with Joss Stone and Aretha Franklin.

I will admit, too, though much more easily here than face-to-face, that I’m feeling a bit homesick for the smell of Roommate’s cheap ass coffee, for the chore of lint-brushing Kitten’s hair from my work clothes, for the buzz of the loudest refrigerator ever, and the glare of the sun on my bed in the morning.

I’ll admit that I’ve thought I was hungry and it turned out to be nothing more than a bit of sadness. And that swallowing doesn’t take away the lump in my throat. But I imagine it will shrink and go away on its own eventually.

Sooner than later, I imagine, this new life will be routine and steady as my previous one had been. And maybe Kitten will come back and I’ll be complaining of lint and dust bunnies again. And if she doesn’t, I’ll adjust as I always have, and find something else to grumble over, and secretly love.

Let’s get this out of the way first:

During the move, Kitten got spooked and took off through the open door. I had to move without her. She has not been found. It has been unbelievably hard and I don’t want to talk about it, because I will cry and that really fucks with my mascara**.

Moving on. Literally.

The move was one complication after another. And if you learn anything from this post, it must be NEVER USE U-HAUL. EVER. Promise me you will support my boycott. Go on. Promise. Good, now we can continue.

The Ways Uhaul Made My Life Hell

1. After promising a local pick-up location, they fucked up and J and I had to drive an hour on a rural route to Middle of Nowhere, MA to get my truck.

2. After promising that the office in Middle of Nowhere, MA opened at 7:00, J and I woke at 5:30 to be on the road before 6:00, arriving at 7:00 to find they did not open until 8:00.

3. After leaving my house (we had gotten THREE houses away) when the rear tire of the truck blew, it took U-Haul TWO and a HALF HOURS to come fix it. Meanwhile, I am paying movers in New York City $100 an hour to sit in front of my apartment doing nothing.

4. After telling me I could drop my truck off at 102nd and Lex, U-Haul further screws me over when the man at said location refuses to accept it. We ended up at 127th and Park, pissed as hell.

The Ways My Friends Made it all Better

1. The Search Team (five of my good pals) scoured my neighborhood for over an hour looking for Kitten. They put up posters. They let me sit on my porch and sob like a six year old and did not make fun of me.

2. J and his girlfriend accompanied me to NYC and stayed up ALL night unpacking my stuff. J put up curtains. Girlfriend made my bed. They disappeared for a half hour and returned with lightbulbs, Tilex, toilet paper and a bouquet of flowers. Everything a girl needs for a new apartment. They made me laugh, most importantly.

3. Ari and Krissa both made appearances yesterday. One for shoe shopping and one for beer, take-out and some girl time in the new apartment. All all before the Alone in New Apartment Melancholy could really take full effect.

And thus went the Great Move of 2004.

** I saw The Incredible Journey when I was a kid. Though you’ll never hear me say it, I’m still holding out for a Disney ending.

I did it.

My first week at the new job tucked safely under my Banana Republic belt, I’m taking the Express back to Boston tonight. The first thing I shall do when I get there is hug my kitten, whom I’ve missed oh-so-much. I’ve been going through withdrawals. My host, seeming a bit mistified by my attempts to entice him with a catnip mouse, has not been an adequate replacment.

The throngs of friends descend tomorrow morning to pack a gi-normous UHaul full of my worldly belongings, and then J, Kitten and I will drive it back here where the brawny movers will do their thing. J and I will reprise our bedroom painting experience and then, it will be just me. In my apartment. In New York City.

I know that many of you have expected more detailed, What-it’s-Like-Livin’-in-the-Big-Apple posts, but quite honestly, nothing has felt more natural to me than making this move. I don’t feel new or out of place (That is not to be confused with “in the wrong place” as I’m really quite good at getting turned around when leaving the Subway). On the contrary, I feel naturalized, somehow and very much in my element.

If you’re wandering around New York City, and you happen to see some nutty broad standing in the middle of hundreds of pigeons throwing her hat into the air with great flourish, that’d be me.

I’m gonna make it afterall.

Things I like about today:

The CEO of my new firm says everything I do for him is “Perfect.” Can you get better than perfect? I think not.
An email from The Second Hardest Man in the World to Please saying, “Nice job.”
Hearing, “You look so nice on such a dreary day!” from one of the admin staff. (We’re best good work friends now.)

Things not so likeable about today:
Forgetting my keys, cell phone and brain and having to walk two blocks back to get them.
The girl who puked in front of me at the Times Square subway station.
The boy who was supposed to be driving my U-Haul for me bailing via email. Nothing like the last minute, huh?
Having to hire movers at that last minute.

Okay, so shit happens. But just look at me rolling with the punches! I mean, It’s like that scene in the Matrix where Keanu totally dodges all those bullets or something. Only, you know, cuter.

I am amazing.

And I could toally use a nap.

Today at lunch, I sign the lease for my new apartment. And write a check for a few thousand dollars, but really, ’tis a small price to pay for the opportunity to eek it out in the epicenter of all things grand and garish, right?

Mmm hmm.

Naked ambition. The Naked Cowboy. New York City really does have it all.

Work is going well so far. Lots on my plate, though, as it seems I’ve been brought in to start a revolution. I don’t mind revolutions. But funny thing about them is they tend to piss off people with power. People who don’t yet know how super totally quacktastic I am. We shall tread lightly into this revolution. I mean, a badly timed, “Let them use Quark” and heads start to roll.

Now, see, it may have lost something in the bloggersphere translation, but in my industry, the above pun would have been pretty funny. I do so crack myself up. Marie Antoinette style.

By the way, my inability to write a cohesive post can all be explained by the sleeping pill that I took last night around ten. They can make me a bit loopy the next day. I’ll be better later, I swear.

When your wise host tells you to print out the subway map at work your first day, and you don’t (for whatever reason), you have no one to blame when the Columbus Circle station is closed, forcing you to find an alternate way to work.

The MTA moved my cheese. And I still managed to get to work early. But that’s really more because of the Benjamin Wagner Standard Time Zone where time runs just a wee bit fast. You know, if twenty-five minutes is ‘wee.’ Regardless of the fact that I made it with time to spare, I’m sure I burnt out a few brain cells making my little paradigm shift. Time to print out the subway map. I suppose it will be of tremendous value to know how to get to more places than work, and to work on mornings such as this.

On a nicer note, I so totally got flirted with on the way to work. God bless NYC and the bellhop at that random hotel on 43rd. All he did was say hello at first, and all I did was smile. Then…

“Now that’s worth getting out of bed for!”

I laughed out loud and kept walking, but I thought, “Damn straight!”

While we’re talking of abandoning… my predecessor left behind a shoe. One gnarled, black leather shoe in the bottom drawer of what is now my filing cabinet. Um gross. But not half as gross as the food in the keyboard. Mmm hmm. Why’d they fire you, honey? You were first rate.

There I go, being evil. I don’t mean it.

I can see the Empire State Building from my office window. Okay, so call me easily impressed but man, was that cool. I am less impressed with my totally uncomfortable tall-backed leather chair. Looks sweet, but so do stilettos, but spend a whole day in them, and you’re singin’ a different tune.

I’m all tuckered out, kids. And get this… turns out, I have to go back again tomorrow. What the…

These New York cats are crazy.

I did NOT abandon Kitten!

I haven’t even moved yet, for Pete’s sake. I’m working for a week, going back to Boston and THEN moving to New York.

Dude, we’ve totally been over this before.

I have arrived.

It was funny, in that sort of, why-am-I-acting-like-such-a-doofus way, how hard it was for me to leave my apartment this morning. Roommate and I didn’t say goodbye (we practice avoidance as a household religion), but I sure had a long parting with Kitten. My Girl E had to help things along and talk me into her car.

Just pretend you’re going on vacation, she said.

Then, to get on that train. To have the patience to sit still for three and a half hours (I snoozed through Connecticut). And then to arrive at Penn Station and think, This is it.

I have arrived.

And I have already learned some fundamental New York City lessons. Not the least of which being how many times the little red hand blinks before you’re pushing your luck in the crosswalk.

I start work in something like 10 hours. TEN HOURS. Ten. Sigh. So, in order to avoid a big bitch slap from Brian, I’ll just get to the part where I convince myself that I am invincible.

I have arrived and this is really going to be great.

Let’s touch briefly on this and never mention it again, alright? It’s just hair. I mean, that’s what I’ve been saying to myself for the last twenty-four hours. It’s just hair.

And on we go.

Spa Day was lovely. My one criticism is that it didn’t last long enough. Oh, and I have another, but you’re going to think I’m some sort of pervert. But here it is. I think if it says, Full Body Massage, the massage should be FULL BODY. Remember when Phoebe (yet another Friends reference) bit her client on the tushie? I don’t want mine bitten, of course. But let’s not ignore it completely!

Okay, on we go again.

My best girls are throwing me a party tonight. And remember the yellow ball gown that was getting donated? Well, it’s having one last night out. I laughed when she suggested it, but as soon as she said, “I dare you” there was no way I could just throw on jeans and a sweater. So, I’m going to my party princess style. There had so better be a tiara there.

And tomorrow, I’m off to New York. Nervous? Me? HA! Well, yeah, if you must know. But I can’t think about it or I’m going to undo all the hard work my nice massage therapist did this morning.

I’m
done
packing.

Well, mostly done. But we’re going to call it “done” because, well, I’m tired of it and my back is sore. And it is not merely a happy coincidence that tomorrow is Spa Day. Manicures and massages. Mmmm… massage.

And now I leave you. But not without the IM Exchange of the Day, courtesy of Mr. Paul Gutman.

Paul: will you be my friend when you come to new york?
H: Hell yes! Especially if you were handy and could hang my new coat hanger level on my wall.
Paul: ooh…I wouldn’t bet on it
H: Hrmmm. You’re replaceable then.
Paul: I was joking. I was joking! Please keep me.
H: Ok. But on a trial basis for now.

So this is what they call anxiety.

It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose. This sudden panic that’s gripped me. I can actually feel that my heart rate is accelerated and, oh my God, is this really shortness of breath?

You’ll think I’m being ridiculous. Or maybe you’ll understand.

I lay in bed this morning, totally unable to make myself get out of bed. Her Highness, Kitten of the Universe, was taking up half my pillow, purring calmly beside me. And I… was panic stricken.

What if I chose the wrong apartment? What if I hate living there? What if my clothes don’t fit in the closet? What if the couch won’t fit through the door? I know I measured it, but what if? Huh? What if? And, what if my friends all divorce me for making them carry boxes and furniture up four flights of stairs?

I made myself get up and take a shower. I noticed that anxiety attacks are really bad for your complexion. So I made myself take a vitamin and extra zinc.

What if I made a really bad decision?

Not about the zinc. It’s good for your immune system.

When he called this afternoon, it felt as though the Gods of Limbo were really getting their rocks off. I was standing in my kitchen, waist high boxes on all sides, talking to my New Boss in NYC.

And I felt neither here, nor there.

New Boss asked how packing was going. “Haven’t changed your mind or anything, have you?”

I laughed. “No, no. Though if I have to pack one more box…”

“Making the big move this weekend?”

“No, actually, not until the 3rd. I’m staying with a friend in the mean time. Oh, I did want to ask what time things got going on Monday morning…”

“We get started pretty early around here. Meeting starts at 8:30 and it’d be great if you could be there. “

I thought about my 7:30 Mondays at the Monkey Firm and smiled. “Perfect.”

“We’re looking forward to seeing you Monday morning then. And please, if you have any questions, don’t be bashful.”

I thanked him for calling, hung up and made my way through the cardboard maze. I hung up my garment bag on the closet door and threw in work clothes that looked as though they’d travel well. Then, went to my computer and bought a train ticket.

I’m starting to feel more there than here. And it’s really fucking bizarre.

I decided to walk in to Cambridge this morning to run a few errands and have lunch with my Adorable Intern. It’s funny how attached to her I got in just three months. But I knew when I met her (and I remember telling a friend this), that she was someone I would really like. Someone I would really get.

We sat at a rickety table in a dark pub between Harvard and Central Squares. She told me she quit the Monkey Firm that morning; I told her I wasn’t surprised. How fun could that place be without me?

By the end of our roasted potatoes, the subject had somehow turned to marriage. I shook my head thinking about the conversation I’d just had with my sister that morning about the current status of my own parental figures. (I’ll let my family keep a wee bit of their dignity and spare you all the Jerry Springer-like details.)

“I don’t know if I believe in all of that anymore.”

“Sure you do,” she said. “Just not their version of it.”

When did they start making 21 year olds so wise?