I have an announcement. In the grand scheme of things, this isn't world-breaking news--but it is earth-shattering to my own world, I think. (That...sounded pretentious. But I am a dramatic person. And dramatic people make dramatic statements. So, good. I'm living up to my own expectations.)
I...like living here. In the city of New York. I like it here. In fact, I kind of almost--gasp--love it here. (I'm experiencing slight anxiety as I type this. Because it feels like the kind of thing one can say and then never take back. So I better be pretty damn sure.) (But I am! At least, I am right now. And I've been thinking about this a lot. I'm not treating the making of this statement lightly in any way.)
I think this revelation has been coming for a long time, too. I've been having these seemingly inconsequential events and thoughts and epiphanies quietly, almost imperceptibly accumulate, and now it is as if someone has presented me with a very pretty, tangible collection of these things and said, Here. Here is what you think. You think this. You like this. You are a part of this now.
We were watching this terrible movie a few days ago--It Could Happen to You, an awfully cheesy Nicolas-Cage-wins-the-lottery-and-has-an-affair-but-gives-away-his-earnings-and-has-a-terrible-dye-job endeavor--and I couldn't help pointing out every single New York City landmark that I even vaguely recognized, despite how pathetic the film itself was. I was so inexplicably pleased when the opening shots featured those great, big buildings that almost immediately identify a movie as taking place in New York. I felt proud, I think, of this city that I live in that so many other people exalt and pay tribute to and proclaim as the greatest city in America. Which is a somewhat silly thing to feel--I'm proud that I live here? That I can somehow lay personal claim to the vast praise that is perpetually heaped on this city? I suppose so.
A girl that I work with at the restaurant was telling me that her boyfriend always gets a Valentine's Day reservationist broker to get the two of them a reservation at a fancy place, under some fake name. And this both baffled and pleased me. A of all, it's ridiculous that people actually pay money to get a reservation for what will surely turn out to be an already stupidly expensive meal under some rando fake name. B of all, that is so ridiculous that it seems singular and therefore inherently lovely. In a head-shaking sort of way. I mean, there are probably quite a few other cities that have reservationist brokers--this is not a New-York-only sort of thing--but it just seems like A New York Thing.
I guess I don't really know where all of this love and admiration for the city is coming from. I've just tried to articulate what I feel, but I've failed miserably. Maybe it's just the simple fact that I'm finally finding my groove here: learning to juggle the awfulness of waitressing with the loveliness of dancing and taking class and slowly, painstakingly making friends and being surrounded by thoroughly entertaining roommates and finally facing the intimidating bus drivers with determined if superficial resolve and learning how to layer my clothes appropriately.
And don't you think for one second that the fact that I am feeling all of this in the dead of winter has escaped me. That is probably the most telling thing of all--I must really love it here, after all, if I can feel this way when it is thirty-something degrees outside and there's a new snowfall every thirty seconds.
Yeah. I guess I've become one of those horribly annoying people who go on and on about how New York is the greatest place in the world to live and it takes a special breed of people to tough it out and if you can make it here, you'll make it anywhere itisuptoyouNewYorkNewYork.
Fine. Fine, then. You're pretty cool, New York. You win.
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