A couple of weeks ago, Bowl #2 and I made a little move to a new place just across the street, scooting into our friends’ apartment after they moved uptown for grad school. Adjusting to this apartment so far has been, for lack of a better simile, like taming a giddy, unrestrained crush. So much light! So many shelves! So clean! So new! CLOSETS! POT AND PAN RACK! For the most part, the last week has consisted largely of Bowl #2 and I looking at each other, firmly ensconced in our old squishy couch on our old chevron rug in our new living room, saying over and over, “I love this apartment. Don’t you love this apartment?”
Of course, being a New York apartment, it’s not without its faults. So far, mainly just a minor (and fixable) one — a stubborn oven that releases gas but refuses to light. (And has since caused the gas company shut off the gas to our apartment altogether. Me: “But … are you sure I can’t just use the stove? You know? Just the stove?” Them: “Yes, unless you want to risk gas building up in the oven and blasting the whole thing apart.” Me: “So … no?”) But, like with most giddy crushes, we’ve readily rationalized its shortcomings — no working stove or oven means an excuse for delivery pizza, right? And green smoothies for lunch, and contemplating crazy shenanigans involving hot water kettles and instant ramen.