My upstairs neighbor, the source of unrelenting distress and anxiety and migraines, is moving. Yay and hot damn! I can finally venture out from under the trapper hat, yank the cotton from my ears, turn down the radio, and rejoin civilized society.
But before we start the celebration, allow me to clarify. She’s moving, all right, just not very far. She’s going from the apartment above me to the apartment beside me. With her ex-husband. So I’m not 100% convinced a celebration is called for. 41%, but that’s not convinced, that’s leaning. Therefore, I’ll hold my applause until the results are final.
While I believe this is my long-awaited nirvana, I need to hedge my bets and treat this not as a certainty, but as a tantalizing possibility. It’s equally possible the deal will fall apart and she’ll stay put. The disappointment would kill me — I hope. If it doesn’t, these are my options so far (in ascending order of drastic):
However imperfect the situation is, it’s still better than nothing. A colossal, pervasive weight, no pun intended, would be winched off my shoulders. While others dream of riches and fame and George Clooney, I’ve dreamed of quiet. And, sometimes, sabotage. I held tight to those dreams through many long, noisy nights like a flotation device.
But until she and her poor battered, overtaxed chair are gone and the key’s been turned in, I remain skeptical. With my hat securely clamped on my head, ear flaps down. Please cross your fingers — arms, legs, and eyes, too. I’ll keep you posted as events unfold.