Around the time spring hit I was preparing for another transition. This time I was leaving the East Village walk-up for a loft in Brooklyn, a space I would share with my boyfriend who was in the process of making his own transition from Los Angeles to New York.
The move charted high on the scale of romantic oeuvre if ever there was one.
We agreed that we had both grown too comfortable in Los Angeles – it was the kind of comfort that gave way to a slower and somehow less vibrant version of living.
It wasn’t making us lazy or complacent, but through routine – and nearly two decades of L.A. between us – we had somehow fallen in step with a steady undercurrent of familiar boredom.
It was a decision discussed for weeks. Did we want to play it safe or go for the unknown? It can be said that New York is the best city in the world. But what if one of us winds up hating it?
What if one of us can’t deal with the trash and the crime, the crowds and the trains, the blazing summertime heat and the the cold, crappy snow?
This was a scenario that could possibly leave our pocketbooks – or worse yet, our hearts – in worse shape than some of the unluckier boroughs.
There are many questions most couples would ask in this situation, such as:
“We’ve been dating six months, is it too soon?”
“Do we trust each other? Are we ready to share a home in a strange new city?”
“Is there a survey we can take, perhaps an online quiz to gauge our level of preparedness for this?”
We weren’t one of those couples. We knew the decision was ultimately ours and no online quiz – or greater powers that be – could indicate otherwise. We wanted to be together. We also understood the mutual need for change and felt that, if only for purely selfish reasons (more so on my behalf) we owed it to ourselves to switch it up.
Plus in the end, how can anyone truly predict the odds?
#
I moved first. He visited, staying for weeks at a time as we crowded into a tiny walk up in the East Village.
When he headed back to LA I watched him walk down the three flights of stairs. He lifted his luggage with one hand and casually pocketed the other in the side of his thin jacket, leaving his overcoat behind in the hopes it wouldn’t be needed until the return of another winter.
He said that this was the last time one of us would be leaving without the other. Unknowingly I slept with the door unlocked that night.
Two months later, he was scheduled to arrive for a second visit and I was nervous. I’ve been told I’m nervous by nature and as for the exact reason I was more nervous within this specific context I cannot say. Maybe because two months had passed. Was I any different – more impatient, perhaps? Would he see the New York wear and tear? Was I even still likable?
I stood downstairs in the rain with my iPhone in hand. Tap, tap-tap, tap. The rain drummed lightly onto my umbrella as small pools of wobbly mirrored reflections began forming in the street.
A couple walked by arm-in-arm, laughing. They shared one of those huge golf umbrellas between them. I smiled while simultaneously hating them on the inside. Why couldn’t I have that? A so-called normal scenario. I began concocting little stories in my mind. They’re on a second date. Instead, perhaps they’ve been together a long time and aren’t heading to dinner but are coming from a funeral.
I shifted from foot to foot. A delivery guy whizzed past on a bike with flashing lights strapped to the front and a plastic poncho tucked securely around his body. A cab splashed by and I pretended to casually look up.
In the past I might have attempted to make more of an impression. I would have put on mascara, been more thoughtful in my selection of attire.
On this particular evening none of that mattered – I just wanted him near. Even though a teeny-tiny part of me felt ashamed and somewhat guilty for this feeling.
I didn’t know how to express it other than to wait, as myself, outside in the misty rain with my weird French eyeglass frames perched sideways on my face and busted up Chuck Taylors on my feet.
#
During those four months people kept telling me stories about being apart from their significant other – for weeks, months, even years at a time. The overall tones of these stories rung of reassurance but freaked me out more than anything else.
Mostly because I was a wreck. I hung around the city and went to shows alone, brunched with old music-industry friends and visited galleries under the pretense of carrying on with my newly acquired New York lifestyle, one that would be fully complete after he got here. We had a plan, a mission that we were executing together.
At all times, the twitchy thought hung overhead that he may not come. He had friends and a life in LA. I had friends in New York and really liked my job. But still. There was a plan.
Then the defensive side began mounting up.
You know, that eerie element that begins whipping its own separate storm on the back burner in the deep, dark, spidery corners of one’s mind.
If we sense any slight possibility of getting hurt it’s there. It’s always steeping, ready to flare up at any sign of weakness. This is when we begin devising alternatives – our own made-up stories and reasoning for things.
The froth and fury began settling in and I wondered if this was the right decision for us to make. I thought about what a wimp I was, allowing myself to become so partisan.
This is the defense. This is where my mind goes.
But I still had his overcoat.
The truth is, allowing myself to become a little more vulnerable is one of the more important things I could do. I wouldn’t have moved if there was even a flicker of a possibility he wouldn’t come. And of course he was going to. It was my inner demon that needed to be released rather than routinely safeguarded.
These kind of specimens can’t be documented, nor can they be held to the light other than for the purpose of this story – and for the sake of acknowledging the unmarked content buried deep inside my chest, protected by a defensive team riding bareback.
#
After he left for the second time (one last visit before the final move), the rest of winter was tough.
In New York, I threw myself into my work and avoided the cold by any means necessary. I grew weary of the winter weather and began feeling a sense of urban fatigue. I started to become overly paranoid, distrustful of others and more defensive than usual. I started having panic attacks and the doctor hooked me up to an EKG to monitor my heart rate.
I tried drinking whiskey and watching Girls. When that didn’t work, I stopped drinking coffee and practiced yoga. I went to acupuncture. I went full-on LA. I called my family more and prayed for stability and peace.
Back in Los Angeles he had his own things to worry about. He met with realtors, talked to potential renters and weighed his options. After doing months of legwork he decided to put his home on the market. He proceeded to pare down his belongings to virtually nothing. He met with his LA friends as often as possible and made a point to visit all his favorite local eateries.
We were in the eye of a storm. He was in the middle of launching a new company. I was in the middle of acclimating to a new job.
We texted, Skyped, e-mailed, and called each other often for support and encouragement. It was surreal. Would we make it through this mess? Would we ever be together?
When I felt any slight underpinnings of failure he helped me see the big picture.
And when he felt that his world was falling apart as he began to isolate each of his belongings one by one, I attempted to muster up the best encouragement I could, keeping in mind what his logical brain might need to hear coming from my neurotic place of visceral reason.
#
In the process of moving far away we both realized that the physical things don’t matter so much. You give them away, sell them, or put them into boxes. Things can always be acquired. What really mattered were the experiences.
For each of us, this is what we wanted not only as individuals but together as a team. We wanted to test life to see what would happen if we opened ourselves up to the possibilities.
In mid-April, the text came:
“Almost go time! Gotta throw my bike and some boxes in my car. Then I’m out! Tacos rt now though!”
He was on his way, and together we were on our way towards our new adventure.
That experience left an indelible imprint. These moments of transition, in any state – they satisfy our continual need for change, surprise and even delight. I’ll always look back on that shaky time we weren’t together. It brings the greater times into focus and makes other situations somewhat lighter.
I’ve deducted that what remains in the long-term is what we have on the inside, and what we’re willing and able to give to those around us. Love and trust are the ultimate forms of currency. The rest of it is merely stuff.