The Unexpected News from Ex...
I got a call from A., my ex of five years. While we were chit-chatting on random issues of his daily life working in a high-profile manhattanite corporate structure and earning an indecently high salary, he suddenly burst out the unbelievable and unthinkable news I wasn't at all prepared for, at least not that soon. He announced that he had finally decided to get on with his life and embrace the future, meaning... moving out of his one bedroom apartment on 38th Street and Lex to Morton Street and Hudson. You were probably expecting to hear something else like a wedding announcement. Not of that sort. Him moving out of his Murray Hill high-rise building to a brownstone in the West Village is more damaging to my heart condition than him announcing that he is getting married. Let me explain. To make a long story short, when A. and I were still together, we did what most couples do after a couple of years. Move one step ahead, i.e., share the rent, the soap, the fridge, the laundry, and all the marital obligations such as informing the other if one wanted to have a guys or girls' night out etc., basically, living in sin. Moving in together is all pretty on paper by reality is not that simple. All the troubles started with apartment hunting, or rather, neighborhood hunting. No way I was going to live above 14th street. Since living in Brooklyn was out of the question for him, I suggested downtown with the view to the Hudson river, Tribeca or West Village. Unfortunately, A. didn't want to go below 14th street. He would rather stay on Upper West Side to be as close as possible to Zabar's as he could not live without his lox and the outrageously-priced delicacies, or within walking/cycling distance to Grand Central where his office is located. No way he was moving downtown, the chirp of seagulls was too aggressive to his sensitive ears. Appalling to live in the West Village, overly crowded with drunk NYU students (A. was not the festive kind), and too far a commute, having to travel on two subway lines (1/9 and the Shuttle) during suffocating rush-hours. A. vetoed each apartment we've visited in the West Village, including one on Morton Street. I vetoed every single apartment on Upper West Side and Murray Hill. Our stubbornness was so fierce that neither of us wanted to compromise on a beautiful apartment facing Gramercy Park. While I was out of town one weekend, he signed the lease, without my consent, for a one bedroom in a Murray Hill building I was most reluctant to live in. Despite the fact that the apartment was light, quiet, spacious with a view to a private garden, I felt I didn't belong in there. I wasn't posh enough for my impeccably dressed neighbors who continuously scrutinized me and my visitors. Five months later, I walked out of 38th street and his life and moved downtown near the river. My life was complete, convinced I had done the right thing until A. announced he was moving to the West Village, in the very same street I had an eye on and which he had firmly vetoed.It's not a big deal you'd say. I know. But it's just a matter of principle.
Dear A:
You never go below 14th street. Next time you'll tell me that you are moving to New Jersey in a house with a wife, two kids, a dog in a SUV (all the things you find utterly uncivilized). That'll be a real shock. Until then, enjoy life in the West Village, my friend.
Best,
Labels: Relationships et al., Self derision
posted by The Little Prince's alter ego @ 6:45 PM
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