I’ll Cover You

Live in my house.

At the age of 33, I’m getting my very first place—no roommates, no boyfriend, no husband, no cat.

Yes, sadly, Penny had to go live with her father. When you untangle your life from someone else’s, there are a lot of little losses, but giving up my cat is one of the biggest. Everyone knows how much I love my cat. I obsessively look at old photos and videos of her, and there isn’t a moment that doesn’t feel like my heart is being pummeled with a baseball bat. There’s a possibility that I’ll never see her again, and that absolutely kills me. She was never meant to be a child of divorce.

This is also one of the aspects of the breakup that I can’t think too hard about right now. I’m still processing everything in bite-sized pieces, and the loss of my beloved pet, whom I cared for so diligently for the past nine years, is simply too much for me to swallow.

*Quick clarification here: My apartment doesn’t allow pets, which is why Penny is not coming with me.*

I’m moving to a part of the city I’ve rarely spent time in before. At first, I sort of bristled at the idea of living in this area, fantasizing about inhabiting cooler or more familiar neighborhoods. But after seeing a few apartments there, I felt like it was the right place for me to start over. I tend to self-isolate at the best of times, so I wanted a place that would be close to loved ones, the gym, and just things. It’s an easy commute to the places I need to be regularly. But most importantly, it is one of the few parts of the city not burdened with memories of my ex.

His fingerprints are all over Upper Manhattan, where we lived for nearly ten years together. They crawl down the west side to restaurants we frequented and friends’ apartments we’d hang out in. Midtown holds happy and proud memories of opening nights and stage doors. We have imprinted our relationship all over museums, eateries, and random street corners. It’s hard to reconcile those spaces with the relationship we shared. The candy store we loved, the sober bar we visited once, even the Staten Island ferry that took us back to our dorms at 18—all reminders of what was.

My new apartment is nothing fancy, and yet it is still so expensive it makes me want to throw up. I am treating myself to a year of high rent in exchange for a little peace of mind in having my own place until I eventually (probably) need to find some roommates. Moving out of my shared apartment with my husband and in with roommates for the first time as an adult just seemed like too much change all at once. As I anticipate this being the hardest year of my life, I felt safest and most comfortable living alone for now. Even though the apartment is small, dark, and outdated, I still feel lucky to call it home.

The theme of the apartment is going to be “feminine goblin.” I always thought that if it weren’t for my partner’s penchant for clean lines and modern furniture, I would live like a bog witch, surrounded by all the weird stuff and little trinkets that make me happy. I also want an apartment that would scare away men. In a fantasy scenario, I would take men back to my apartment and sleep with them, and in a post-coital moment of clarity, they would start to notice the strangeness of the decor. Something feels off… and just as they lock eyes with one of my several haunted dolls (who watched the whole thing, by the way), I would transform into a woman-sized spider and bite their heads off.

So many fun things to look forward to!

If I’m being vulnerable, I am afraid that I will feel lonely. I recently had the realization that I am no one’s favorite person anymore, and that brought on a feeling of profound loneliness. I feel a bit pathetic admitting this, because I have such an incredible and present support system, and I genuinely do enjoy my own company, but I’ve never had to spend so much time alone before. I never experienced the loneliness of New York that people often talk about, and it sounds like a motherfucker.

But let’s hope I get to experience the other side of New York City in my first year as a single woman—the vibrant, spontaneous, magical one. The “Sex and the City,” “Broad City,” HBO’s “Girls” New York. The New York that enamored me as a kid, not the one that chewed me up and spat me out in my twenties. Yes, perhaps I’m romanticizing, but this is the only romance I have in my life right now, so why not lean in?