After years of back-and-forth, sleeping in two places, bringing a bag to work and trying to schedule my week so I know I’ll be sleeping at my girlfriend’s place at least one night, I caved. I’m moving in with her. Ballgame OVER.
It was an epic run for my roommate and me at 2 Stuyvesant Oval, apartment 6E, aka “The Deuce” or “The Oval”. Since graduating college five years ago, The Deuce has been the hub for all things drunk, sports, and fun for our crew. It wasn’t just our apartment — it was where we all lived. Our hangout, our clubhouse, our Peach Pitt. Where we went to play poker, pre-game before going to see our favorite bands, toss some beer pong, and watch football on Sundays. While everyone was always on the move, the couch that sat seven dudes comfortably remained constant.
When my now-former-roommate and I moved in to Stuy Town in 2002, the world was a different place: Jack Bauer had just finished the first of the hardest days of his life and there was no such thing as Facebook. The Knicks were regulars in the playoffs and the Red Sox still hadn’t won a World Series since 1918; the world — as I knew it — made sense. I was 22 and loving every second of the single life in NYC — the last thing I wanted was a girlfriend to hold me down.
Then the cliché hit me right in the face. Sometimes the best things in life happen when you least expect. One night at a party, a friend introduced me to a stunning brunette with long eyelashes and an amazing smile, who taught kids with autism to boot. If my recent move was “game over,” that was my last timeout.
It was an emotional few weeks leading up to the move as we dug through the previous five years. We went out in style and were compelled to make all of our last activities at The Oval memorable. The last supper, the last episode of “Heroes,” the last football game, the last terrible Knicks game (I hate you Jim Dolan), the last walk to the Stuy Town Deli and Convenience Store and, of course, the last party. We made sure to acknowledge each of these lasts, as we tried to soak up as much as possible while this chapter of our lives was closing.
So now here I am, writing this from the uncomfortable confines of my girlfriend’s…err…”our” place. Apparently there wasn’t enough space in the living room for my desk (her pseudo bar area where she keeps all her wine is obviously way more important), so I’m on the couch slouching over the coffee table which is no way to type.
The organized mess I’m used to living in has turned into a sparkling clean paradise that always smells of Fantastic and flowers. Everything is to be neatly put away at all times. Clothing goes in my closet and not sprawled out on the couch, even if for just for the time being. Wrappers must go directly into a proper trash receptacle and are not allowed to be exposed on any surface for more than five minutes. Defiance of these rules is met with an automated tantrum I’ve become all too familiar with. It lasts for approximately four and half minutes before she’s over it – until the next offense.
Suddenly America’s Top Smartest Runway Model shows are clogging up my DVR. I’m receiving urgent calls at work regarding which hanging basket from The Container Store might look good in the kitchen…like I really care? And what guy doesn’t love a nice big box of tampons greeting you every time you go into the bathroom?
She’s been living in this apartment for three years so the majority of the furniture and décor are hers. A lot of my stuff didn’t make the cut. It’s going to take some getting used to as far as feeling at home in concerned. A vintage Heineken bar light here and an autographed John Starks wall hanging there are certainly helping my cause.
Putting these small obstacles aside, the transition period has actually been smoother than expected. I think the idea of moving in with your girlfriend is more daunting than the actual reality of it. The stress of living in two places at once is gone. I know where I’m going to start and end my days, and actually getting to see her during my busy weeks is great. Now that it’s all said and done, I’m confident that I made the right move.