Date-marking.
I've lived in my apartment for a little over a year now, and today was the first day I've ever had a guest. My brothers and dad have come over a few times, but they're the only ones - aside from the people who run the building - who've seen my place. No guests, ever. It just hadn't happened yet. I don't know enough people in New York City I'd want to have over, and the people I'd want to have over aren't usually in New York City. Usually.
I took today and Monday off work to see a friend who'd come in from out of town - when people at work asked, I'd say Australia is about as out-of-town as you can get, Perth especially. Monday it was with a third person we both knew, and the day started at Grand Central Station and made its way through the West Village, fresh tofu and fetish stores and sex toy shops, chocolate and shoes and a pigeon landing on my head in Washington Square, finishing up in Dovetail for a three-hour dinner.
Today it was just her and I, starting at Grand Central again, more shoes and the Union Square farmer's market for lunch, Brooklyn for ice cream and not-perfume and cat snuggles at a used bookstore, and then back to Manhattan for exotic pets. And my apartment. And I didn't hesitate at all to suggest it, or include it as part of the afternoon plans, because I knew it'd be okay. It was something that I knew would work out. And it did - not just for giving us a quiet, private place to sit and talk for about two and a half hours, although that was a very nice thing which happened, both of us getting off our feet and being able to sit down and talk like I almost never do because so many of my friends live so far away.
It was also my knowing that this space which is mine, which I have to myself and can reasonably decide what happens here and when that is and all the hows and whys and wherefores involved, would be shared with someone, with me deciding who that would be. Something I haven't done before today. That it's safe to share it. That it won't hurt me or my place to share. The feeling I got, the comfort in knowing it all went well. My being willing to let it happen. I'm glad it did, and if I wasn't quite so tired, I'm sure I'd be able to say it better.
I took today and Monday off work to see a friend who'd come in from out of town - when people at work asked, I'd say Australia is about as out-of-town as you can get, Perth especially. Monday it was with a third person we both knew, and the day started at Grand Central Station and made its way through the West Village, fresh tofu and fetish stores and sex toy shops, chocolate and shoes and a pigeon landing on my head in Washington Square, finishing up in Dovetail for a three-hour dinner.
Today it was just her and I, starting at Grand Central again, more shoes and the Union Square farmer's market for lunch, Brooklyn for ice cream and not-perfume and cat snuggles at a used bookstore, and then back to Manhattan for exotic pets. And my apartment. And I didn't hesitate at all to suggest it, or include it as part of the afternoon plans, because I knew it'd be okay. It was something that I knew would work out. And it did - not just for giving us a quiet, private place to sit and talk for about two and a half hours, although that was a very nice thing which happened, both of us getting off our feet and being able to sit down and talk like I almost never do because so many of my friends live so far away.
It was also my knowing that this space which is mine, which I have to myself and can reasonably decide what happens here and when that is and all the hows and whys and wherefores involved, would be shared with someone, with me deciding who that would be. Something I haven't done before today. That it's safe to share it. That it won't hurt me or my place to share. The feeling I got, the comfort in knowing it all went well. My being willing to let it happen. I'm glad it did, and if I wasn't quite so tired, I'm sure I'd be able to say it better.