For years now, the city's been drawing me closer and closer, and in a few weeks, it will finally have me. The lease is signed, the checks are written and the keys delivered, complete with rubber chicken keychains.

For the first time in four years, I'll have a roommate again; I won't have to do all the dishes or cooking or shopping anymore, but I will have to remember to shut the bathroom door. The last time I had to share the bathroom, it was with three other girls and required a trip through somebody's bedroom, a situation not half as annoying as all the people who couldn't fathom that three women could comfortably use the facilities without screaming matches, scratching and the sabotaging of romantic relationships. Presumably the new arrangement will attract less derision.

Besides the skylight-endowed bathroom, we'll have a fireplace and a front deck on which to spend the entire summer, drinking something spiked and grilling on the barbecue we don't yet have. Both of us will actually be able to stand in the kitchen at once. And we will do laundry with abandon in a washer and dryer that don't require the jealous hoarding of quarters. We're already drawing up floor plans, plotting paint jobs and yard work, envisioning the endless hours we will spend flomping with goodies sent to us by Netflix.

For the first time, I'll be a city girl, not just standing on the outskirts looking in. The lights will guide me home at night, and in the morning as I lay in bed, I'll feel the city's thrum in my veins. I may even learn to use the bus system myself instead of following Shan around.

But first I have to bribe a lot of people to help me move my furniture. Preferably while I supervise.

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