Life on the edge sounds so exciting, glamorous. Except when it has nothing to do with sky diving, race car driving, espionage, or vampires. Sometimes the edge is crumbling, and what lies below is an abyss of bills, uncertainty, medical needs, caregiving, and desperation. Oh yeah, another feel good blog.
You know those fabulous apartments you’ve seen on tv and in the movies showcasing life in Manhattan? Luxury buildings that line the parks, brownstones on tree lined, historic side streets? They exist, but that isn’t me. We live in one of a series of buildings that went up in the late ’60s and early ’70s; designed to keep working class and middle class people in the city. The rent isn’t pornographic, but the overall cost of living in the city is so high that the grocery bill is. People earning $200,000 a year consider themselves middle class around here, and they aren’t far from wrong. Husband’s plan of getting into a smaller apartment in one of these buildings to then transfer to one large enough to accommodate us didn’t quite work out. So we’re 5 people, 2 dogs, and a reef tank in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment. Jealous yet?
Yes, all the best restaurants, shops, museums, schools, and medical care, but we can’t patronize any of these. It’s kind of like being a two year old visiting at Elegant Grandma’s adults only condo, decorated in shades of white and ecru, “Don’t touch!” So yes, I live on the periphery of that Manhattan you see in the movies.
I used to write regularly, even considered myself a writer (though never a writ-ahhh). I dreamed of a beach house somewhere beautiful and clean. I imagined having enough, and being enough. Now that I’m forty thousand years old, I dream of eight hours of uninterrupted sleep followed by two days of peace.