Living in New York makes you wish you were thinner, hotter, richer, more successful and every other thing you hope you’ll be but are ok with not being when you live basically anywhere else. I didn’t look at the NYC skyline and think “I made it,” I looked at it and thought about all the ways I failed.
The other day I took a cab from Kennedy to my apartment after visiting my family in Mexico and quitting my shitty customer service job. I felt so excited to see the skyline and know that I live here. I’m entering this new chapter of my life, and all I feel is lucky. It might be terrifying, disappointing, or awful… but I’ve realized in the past few months a benefit to life in New York: There’s always a new chapter to start, always a new beginning if you choose to grab it.
Chelsea honestly made my day today. Maine’s my home for all intents and purposes (and for all the sappy reasons, as in “where my heart is”) and it always pleases me when others recognize it.
I hope those of you with slutty tear ducts understand that some of us have been forced to become hardened to displays of wild emotion for social reasons, personal reasons, sad commercials, or mean Internet commenters.
It’s important to respect that we all operate on different demonstrative frequencies.
I feel like I could have written a lot of this article, mostly because I am the absolute worst person to be around if you’re going to burst into tears without notice. I just don’t know what to do or how the person wants to be comforted or if they even want to be comforted at all. Everyone’s different, and as a general non-cryer, I’m especially at a loss. But this bit really resonates with me and is the best take-away: People cry for reasons that might seem strange. They might not cry when other people expect them to. Show a little compassion, no matter what, and we’ll all be okay in the end.
It’s that time again, when people can’t help but wax a little poetic about the last 12 months (I’m no exception) and make resolutions for the next year (from which I abstain — for scientific reasons, sort of). I made new friends and lost touch with some others. I did some things I’m really proud of and some stuff I’m not so proud of. (I also did plenty of things I feel very neutral about, even though I have a sneaking suspicion that maybe I “should” feel not-proud of them.) There was a break-up in there, as well as a lot of laughter and late nights and big decisions and uncertainty and moments that felt like the best of my life.
But just that — that sounds a lot like 2010 and 2009 and basically every year of my late teens and early 20s. This year, though… man. I got my Master’s degree. I spent Wednesday evenings all summer at long happy hours, re-discovering how great Chicago and my classmates could be. I turned 23 over a dinner of Thai food and a gift of tickets to see The Decemberists, who put on an excellent show. I spent seven months sleeping on an inflatable bed. I had my first real job interview and didn’t get laughed out of the editor-in-chief’s office (my definition of a success). I sent a text to a friend in New York along the lines of, “So I’m actually moving to NYC in a week. Can I ship all my shit to your apartment in a couple of days? I’ll be there right after.” I lived on her love seat for a week, which was the start of an exhilarating, crushing relationship with the city, one that is more complex and fulfilling than any I’ve ever had with a human being. I saw my bank account dip lower than it’s been since I was 13. I accepted an internship with my favorite magazine, and shook my head in disbelief every morning I swiped into the building. I took another internship with a company that intimidated me — so much technology! — but I’m going back full-time starting in 2012. I spent a week eating, drinking, and enjoying the unbelievable March warmth of New Orleans with friends. I think I cried more than I did in 2010 (which wasn’t hard, since I only cried two or three times last year), but nothing that brought me to tears was upsetting or memorable even a week later. I spent Sundays all spring playing on a softball team with my friends (and then eating pizza and drinking beer at a nearby bar). I went to Lollapalooza in August, and danced my ass off a Girl Talk concert in March. I ate a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I saw my parents for 18 days between January and November, but am somehow closer to them now than I think I’ve ever been. I bought a piece of furniture for the first time. I ate Thanksgiving dinner next to the dance critic for the New York Times. I worked hard on my final project in grad school, and was so tired after it that I couldn’t stand straight when I finally got to Maine to visit my family. I (sort of/finally) learned to ride a bike. I survived one of the biggest storms Chicago has seen in 50 years and spent my snow day stomping around Northwestern’s blanketed campus.
TL;DR — 2011 & I got along well, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to say the same for 2012.
