A restless state of in-between
I have such a short attention span. I find something right in one part of my life and want everything else to immediately line up accordingly.
My current situation is lovely. I went to see a Saturday matinee on Broadway with a friend, and spent Sunday browsing odd little vintage and costume boutiques. I made ravioli cassorole that should last me at least until Wednesday, and ended the evening with a glass of wine and about 30 pages of Emma — my favorite Jane Austen book — before chatting to Jon and then falling asleep. Pretty typical weekend.
But here I am, Monday morning and it’s a snow day, which leaves me with nothing to do except contemplate my existance. Which is to say, find fault with my current situation. My room is a small disaster with too many shoes and not enough closet. I’m aching for a dog — it’s been five years since I’ve lived with one and at this stage of desperate longing, every mutt on the street sets off some dreamy soundtrack in my head as I resist reaching for him in a violation of the New Yorker way. But how could I possible condemn such an innocent creature to this room or expect my roommates to accept such a change?
Thus, I must move. But I can’t move — I don’t have quite enough money. And even if Jon were to get a place with me, then we’d have to decide on the city. (Although I think I might actually be somewhat successful in persuading him toward Hoboken) In any case, I can’t move until at least the summer because who wants to take on a move when a foot of snow could suffocate every street across the East coast on any given Monday?
I’m stuck here, in a restless state of in-between, a place that wouldn’t be that bad if I wasn’t so looking forward to the next best thing.