Yesterday was moving day, when the big furniture made its way up to the new place and Band-Aid No. 3 finally came off. The move itself went very smoothly, thanks in part to the many recommendations I got for Vinnie the Mover. Mike and "Antny," who quite resemble Terry Benedict's twin bodyguards in Ocean's Eleven and Twelve, moved everything gently and professionally, and nothing was broken or misplaced. Which is just as well for them, because otherwise I would have had to kick their fat asses.
It was still a heady day, walking away from 16 years, as many of you might have gleaned from the two all-capped FUCKINGs during my in-transit twitterpation. As I look back on it now, hammering away at that little QWERTY keyboard while swerving around taxis at 40mph, I can't see how I managed to spell and punctuate everything properly. Adrenaline is a strange and wonderful thing.
I didn't want to remember much about my first night in the new place, so I arranged to be too tired to care. After I hung out with the kids for a bit, I biked to Central Park, played eight innings of softball, drank three beers, and biked all the way home. It's a miracle I didn't pass out in the shower.
Since my windows are still bare, I awoke with the sun at around 6 and realized I'd had eight hours of the deepest sleep I think I've ever had in the city. No sirens, no garbagemen hurling rubbish for distance. Just a couple of nuthatches in the tree outside my bedroom window, and an ever-so-slight feeling that I could get used to this.