As part of Operation New Oven, my landlord sent in his electricians on Thursday to rewire the kitchen to accomodate an oven manufactured after 1948. Since they were already in the apartment, he asked them to rewire the switch in the bathroom too. Thus, now, for the first time in the 10 years I've been in this apartment, I have a switch on the wall instead of a pull chain over the shower to turn on the light.
Let me say, first of all, it's totally cool that my landlord did that. He clearly had it done as an improvement, and I approve and am grateful. However, it doesn't feel right yet. My body has a sense memory, completely unconscious, about what happens when I enter my bathroom: check to see if it's too dark in there (my apartment is blessed with abundant sunlight in many of its rooms) and if it is, reach up, pull on the light. I've been doing it for 10 years, and it's hard to shake that memory: I keep reaching for the pull chain that's not there.
A lot has changed for me recently, as you may know. Roo and Corey moved to a new neighborhood; I began to make plans to move to Pittsburgh; my job is coming to a bitter, contenious end. These are major milestones, and the ramifications of them will reverberate in my life for a long while. I accept this, but I can't help feeling like I'm not quite dealing with this. Perhaps I am fixating on the little things as a stay against confusion: the changed lightswitch, the altered landscape of my apartment as I pack, the new oven of a different color on its way. Perhaps I mourn these little changes so that mourning the big changes seems more mangeable. Right now, it's the best I can do, so it is good enough.