I have tried to write about this SO many times over the past two years, but I feel like I’ve never quite captured what I’ve really wanted to say. Walking through Bally’s Wild Wild West casino in Atlantic City yesterday, I think I got closer to it than ever before.
City friends of mine (read: not lifelong Queens peeps) had had drinks at the Met Friday night. It’s something that I have always vaguely wanted to do, but also something that I have always put off, something I can do “at some point in the future.” Learning who had attended the event (Chicago-natives, Ohio-natives, California-natives, etc.), made me realize something. I am not as enthusiastic about going out and living it up in the city because, 1. I’ll admit, I’m in a relationship, and I prefer cuddling in A/C to high heels and tight dresses on a humid-as-fuck July night, and 2. I’ve always lived here. I’ve never felt that my time is finite here, that I need to squeeze out the magnificence of New York now, “while I’m here,” because I’ll eventually move back home to be closer to my family.
I never used to think that I’d ever leave New York. I honestly imagined a long life lived on the Upper East Side; I’d grow rich from writing (ha!) and buy a townhouse, and yes, shock gasp, raise children in Manhattan that go to (!!!) public school. Perhaps I’ll write about my escalating struggles with trying to prove to City Friends that the New York City Public School System is not for degenerates and gun-toting gangsters — I swear one person actually said once, “I guess I could send my kid to public school but… yecchh,” — though I digress. My point here is that I’ve always believed New York would be there for me to enjoy. It has been the backdrop of my entire life, and I believed it always would be.
I don’t particularly care about status, social circles, Saks, or the East Village. Let me repeat, and this is going to sound pretentious: the East Village is to me, whatever the local college bar crawl was to you. The East Village is underage drinking, puking, bad decisions, sugary cocktails, PBRs, lanky guys with floppy hair who think they are smarter than they are because they read The Week. It’s where I spent several college (and high school) nights, barhopping as Amy Bernstein with my fake ID, and kissing manboys to get over whatever crush of mine was going unrequited at the moment. As your adult selves, would you really want to spend every weekend hanging out in your hometown’s parking lot, drinking Natty Light till the cops chased you home?
That’s why I choose to live and play on the UES as an adult. But here’s the thing, and I’ve never hit on it until now: I’m jealous of you newbs. I’m jealous that this all gets to be exciting and new and exhilarating for you. And while I am still able to capture that feeling sometimes, it’s almost not enough. I’m beginning to feel a little restless. On the heels of starting a new job at a welcoming and comforting new organization that I truly believe will help me discover a new level of understanding, maturity and, yeah, spirituality, I kind of also feel that this will be my last job in New York. That I’m poised to leave after a couple of years to set up shop somewhere new. I don’t know yet where that will be, and I don’t know what could possibly compete with New York, but that’s just it: New York has always been home to me. And I’ve always been a girl that likes a challenge.
