Saturday, I went out. Rob pulled the car close to the front door and, after checking both ways for gun-toting thugs, I dashed to the front seat, like a deer running scared through a meadow (except with less grace and way, way more afro; the “crazy shut in” act has taken it’s toll on my hair and it’s… not… cute). We drove seven blocks to the subway station, and I did another dash underground.
Driving seven blocks is a pretty weenie thing to do, especially on a wonderfully beautiful night like Saturday, but there was no way I was walking it. Just wasn’t gonna happen. And Rob loves me, like, a lot, apparently, so he chauffeured me the distance that probably would have taken less time to walk, and I’m grateful.
We tried to take the subway to Manhattan but the A was running on the F line, or something, and we wound up really close to the Brooklyn Bridge. Rob decided to, in his words, “make some lemonade” and we walked across it. Finally! I’ve wanted to do that for ages. It’s totally worth it if you ever get the chance. I wish I had my camera.
We’re discussing subletting this place and moving again, to someplace where I can feel less mentally insane. It’s such a bummer; I was so elated when I found this apartment, and I really do like my immediate neighbors a lot (plus, there are tons of charming older Southern people on the block, and our three dogs are famous around here!) We’re playing it by ear.