It's finally here! The long Memorial Day weekend marks the unofficial start of summer. All over the city, barbecue grills are flaring, flip-flops are flapping and you can almost hear the snap-snap-snap of a million tubes of sunblock flipping open. New York City is gearing up for fun in the sun. Lush, green spaces are beckoning, with grasses plump, cool and healthy from copious (and some would say excessive) doses of spring rain. The lunchtime crowd jostles daily for precious fountain-side seats. The very air, it seems, is trembling with anticipation.
But for me, at least for the next few days, anticipation is all I will have. You see, my boyfriend of many years, my sweetie, my honey bunny, my one and only, is moving in with me this weekend. And while the vast majority of Gothamites will be heading off to their summer retreats, sprawling their winter-pale bodies over every available inch of grass, consuming tremendous amounts of grilled meats, or raiding Old Navy for cargo shorts and tank tops, my sweetheart and I will be re-arranging furniture, packing and unpacking boxes, and sneezing our way through a truckload of dusty knick-knacks.
This move has been a long time in the making. I rejected the original plan of each of us vacating our apartments for a bigger space. The expense, and the trauma, would have been just too much for me at the time. But he kept pushing, and I kept rejecting, and finally he hatched a dastardly plan. If he moved in with me, he surmised, I would be so maddened by the cramped quarters and lack of privacy that I would eventually cave in and start searching for a bigger place for us to live. In the meantime, we would save money on rent and utilities, which will come in very handy for the inevitable rental deposit for our next 'crib'. In light of the fact that I've pondered a hundred different ways to fit all his worldly goods into my Hobbit-worthy domicile, and come up miserably short every time, I think the evil genius might be on to something.
But before we start thinking about the next big move, we've got to get this one out of the way. This weekend, I must become a master manipulator of space and time. I firmly resolve to have a place set aside for every scrap of clothing, every stick of furniture and every electronic monstrosity that he chooses to bring to the party. And I will do it all in the space of three short days, not because I want to prove I'm some kind of superwoman, but because I really don't want to risk tripping over a guitar and cracking my skull open when I get up to pee in the middle of the night.
Who knows, maybe we'll do such a good job that Memorial Day will actually turn out to be a real holiday for us. Or maybe we'll end up having to share the bed with a microwave and a set of stereo speakers. Whatever happens, we are determined to make it work. Summer is calling, and we're not about to let a few wayward appliances stand in our way.
Save me a hamburger!