Shattered Dreams

M. and I are getting registered as domestic partners tomorrow, so that he can partake of my shitty 1199 health insurance.

When we first discussed taking this momentous step, I had an image in my head of me in my pillpox hat, eyes all atwinkle, gazing proudly at M. as he hunched over the mayor's sun-dappled desk to sign our Life Partner Celebratory Commitment papers, followed by a celebratory dash down the steps of City Hall.

This image was somewhat compromised when I found myself standing in line at the dirty drugstore down the street with a motley crew of miscreants and nonogenarians, waiting for the creepy pharmacist/notary/pedophile to stamp our pre-registration papers with his creepy, yellow-fingernailed fist.

Then the pretty image came back a little bit last night as I listened to M. describe the sprawling, limestone City Hall building where we'd be legally validating our relationship on the municipal level after work on Thursday.

Then I went on the website and saw that the Manhattan office closes at 3:30, which is too early for me to leave work, which means that now we probably have to go to the one in the Bronx, because it's on my way home and is open until 4pm, and now the pretty image is laying trampled and lifeless in the middle of the Grand Concourse.