Tonight's the last night I live at the Disco Kroger. And, to be honest, I am in a state, and furiously counting my Rainman toothpicks.
When my college pal Mary called a few minutes ago to volunteer a spare truck to tomorrow's moving process, she asked what I was doing, and when I told her I was saying goodbye to the DiscoKroger, she responded, without a moment's hesitation, "You are such a freak." (Not many people can say that to me, but we've known each other since we were 17, so she's grandfathered in.)
My BFF is a bit more restrained, but the implication's the same. I think what she said was that, while she often accuses me of having high-class problems, this is what she calls a No-Problem Problem.
As she points out (fairly enough), since I can still step into the road and see the DiscoKroger from the new place, it is not entirely accurate to suggest that I am abandoning it. True, but it's not the same as having Kroger in my pantry -- where I can walk anytime I want and get whatever I want, at 2 in the morning. When she asked what the last thing I bought at two in the morning was, my instant answer was: Limes. I run out of them all the time, and it's a source of singular comfort to me that I can just walk next door at any hour of the day or night and get more. You'd think I have scurvy or something. (She brought several bags to Easter brunch, which did ameliorate the panic somewhat.)
My gal Rachel also adds reassuringly that since the new kitchen has twice the cupboard space, maybe I won't need to go to the DiscoKroger 7 times a day. I hope she's right.
God I hope she's right.
Jr. Gays are but a church parking lot away in the event you need someone to throw over some citrus or a can of fabulous.
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