moving

I am broken. Sore from my neck to the balls of my feet. I want to sleep for a week or a month at least, but I still have to unpack, assemble and rearrange furniture and do tons of laundry. My knees at turns refuse to straighten and to bend. My hands are cramping while writing this.

But I have a new place to live. One all of my own. With a balcony for my plants, where I can sit and read and smoke. And four pools. And a fitness center. And a room with a pool table.

I can do my laundry all night long if I want. While sitting naked watching DVDs on my iMac in my living room. There is a shuttle that arrives at my door every 20 minutes in the morning and takes me to the metro station where I am all but guaranteed a seat until I get to Gallery Place.

And while the people at the leasing office seem to think I will be fine, I am still not sure that I can afford all of this luxury. There will be a tightening of the proverbial belt buckle. No cable hook-up, no more driving to work unless absolutely necessary, I will start to bring my lunch with me and make my own dinners.

But I finally have a home. A place of my own. And, really, I have never been happier.