(Long Island, NY) It never fails. Just as soon as the good weather kicks in, suddenly there are a million and one things that need doing that have nothing in common with the great outdoors. “Spring Cleaning!” is the battle-cry of wives, girlfriends and significant others. “Who wants to stay inside?” is the whimper of protest from the other side. Spring has always made me even more impatient than I already am. I can’t wait to get outside, I can’t wait to feel the sun on my face, and are we done cleaning yet?
No matter. This year, I am ready.
In JANUARY, I threw a season’s worth of junk away. Old magazines. Bill receipts from 1999. My old Y2K backup discs. Remember Y2K? That was the big computer epidemic that was supposed to destroy the world, snarl your bank accounts, and give pets a permanent frown on New Year’s eve at the turn of the century. I finally threw all that stuff out. I washed the windows in February. Shivering, freezing, wet and soapy, I stood there reminding myself that I wouldn’t get trapped indoors this year just as I was getting spring fever. I was all prepared, I was psyched. You could say overexcited. It’s how I am-a hyperactive ball of energy who really ought to switch to decaf.
As soon as the urge hit me I would be grabbing the tent, the backpack, the Frisbee, any and everything you can imagine that gets associated with temperatures above fifty. It could happen at any time, with no warning-the right spring breeze across my face, or just the right color sunset could set me off. And this time, no girlfriends, fiancés, best-buddies–not even Mom– would keep me inside cleaning this year when I should be outside, naked, painted blue and frolicking among the foliage.
Ok, maybe NOT naked.
I had my plan, I was READY. It was going to be beautiful. I might even take up surfing. I had a million ideas. Then the mail came.
“Dear Sir, blah blah blah, we regret to inform you that your apartment building has been purchased by another company that does not intend to continue renting to residential tenants. Your lease cannot be renewed. We regret blah, blah, blah.”
My home was being converted to god knows what, and right before I could enjoy my first attack of spring fever. I was being force to MOVE. This was the worst. All my best laid plans, now up in the smoke-or more accurately, the dust—of a forced relocation.
I wanted to rebel. An eviction sit-in. A protest. How dare they sell my apartment from under me without so much as a warning? Of course, local governments are doing the rough equivalent of this with practical impunity to homeowners under the guise of eminent domain. How did I, lowly Joe Renter, expect to get by unscathed? It was bound to happen eventually, right? Oohhh, I was soooooo very very very very angry. Yes. Four ‘verys’ is a LOT of angry.
Whatever.
Maybe I should write them back and tell the landlord he can have my apartment when he pries it from my cold, dead fingers. Maybe I should just sell everything I own and go live in Southern California on a beach with a beard, a surfboard, and a nice sun-induced skin condition. Instead, I decided for once in my life to splurge on a move, hire some movers instead of doing it myself. Maybe I can pay a friend or colleague to supervise the move, leaving me free to find a bit of frolic. It will be costly—probably more than a poor writer can afford. But isn’t my sanity worth it? I got a bit of my vigor back, and started flipping through the phone book looking for a decent moving company that could box everything up for me, deliver and unpack and not require me to sell my soul to the devil, or Corporate America. I do hear that Corporate America is paying better than the devil these days, but I don’t have time to work my way up the ladder. If I could become a soulless drone in say, three weeks, MAYBE. Who am I kidding, I don’t have the patience for that nonsense. Keep your ties, folks, maybe one day you’ll learn that there are more beautiful things in life than quarterly earnings reports, profit/loss statements and productivity charts.
Just as I was getting ready to call a friend of mine to bribe into overseeing my stuff while I hiked off into the sunset, the phone rang. My landlord was on the other line with wonderful news—the building sale fell through, and all leases would be available for another year. It was the kind of thing that always happens to me—I get very worked up and upset over some pothole on life’s highway, and scurry in six directions at once to try and fix the problem, then lo and behold, it all sorts itself out. I got pissed off, over-excited and worried for nothing. When will I ever learn to count to ten?
Maybe as I’m lacing up my hiking shoes this season. I’ll deal with learning how to be patient after I’ve gotten some of my planned spring fever activities in: some bird-watching, fishing and golf.
