In New York the value of real estate is a direct relation to the epicenter of the world: the corner of Fifth and 59th. Any apartment, store, grocery not located on that corner is evaluated and priced accordingly. Once you have left the island of Manhattan, real estate is evaluated by how quickly you might reach said corner via taxi, bus or train. Ergo, anything near the L, or the JMF train becomes desirable and any real estate valued near the G train is considered a misfortune.
I, for one am of a differing opinion and after a potentially successful weekend gone awry, I know that I am correct in my convictions. Real estate does not center around fifth and Madison, but can be evaluated by an entirely new perspective: How close would you like to live to the person you are currently sleeping with and how quickly would you like to get home after waking up in their bed at 6am, still drunk and unfortunately no longer wearing your party clothes?
To create an accurate appraisal system, each situation must be taken on a case-by-case basis. The best way to choose the most valuable place for yourself is to take a batch sample of your potential partners and consider their target neighborhoods. I, for one, like men over 6’3” who ride bicycles, a demographic located within walking distance from any L train stop.
The next step is determining how closely you would like to coexist with your compatible neighborhood. Although I do not like seeing bygone partners at the grocery store, $30 cab rides from Williamsburg back to the upper west side can really put the pressure on your weekend expenses. All things considered, I guess I did a terrible job choosing apartments.
I am at a crossroads: I can continue to eat the travel expenses that come with my decision or I can simply start seeing other guys. Why not a nice accountant for a risk management firm in Flatiron? Or a PR guy on Central Park West?
After careful thought and many walks of shame past the Williamsburg bridge I have made a decision. Although I hate the financial implications of my choice I prefer to keep my grocery stores free of run-ins and I do hate putting on makeup before 10PM. So I’ll stay safely isolated in Morningside park. What is a $30 cab rides when you can think of the time and makeup you will save?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Downward Dog
When it comes to the gym, I am a personal trainer's dream. Give my a list of exercises and I will follow your instructions unquestioningly and without regard for personal limits. It's rare that I get bored with my workout routine (run for an hour) but this January, my fitness goals had me yearning for something new. In the spirit of branching out I enrolled myself in a month long membership at a hot yoga studio.
Yoga has always been a special interest of mine, for many reasons. Obviously, the outfits constitute the main appeal, because yogis are always stylishly dressed in choco sandals and climbing pants. The food comes next, yogis are usually drinking coconut milk or eating kashi. They just LOOK so healthy. When someone with a yoga mat is walking down the street the crowd seems to part: God bless your sun salute.
As you can see, the actual yoga practice is pretty far down on the list of things that make yoga appealing but blinded by the opportunity to awaken my spirit and buy new clothes, I didn't see the truth until it was much too late.
On my first day of class I rode the train, yoga mat in hand, watching the people schooch over on the crowded bench to make room for me and my transcendent soul. How cool did I look wearing Ugg boots and organic fabrics on the NRQ train? After my roommate asked me about the class. I had no response but I was quick to show her my new mat and hydrating watermelon drink.
Here is how the class goes: the beginners and people who are extremely athletic and talented though not familiar with the yoga routine (me) sit in the back. The people who are familiar with the routine and somewhat okay at yoga sit in the middle and the people who are super cool and have multiple yoga outfits and can do "standing-head-to-knee" sit in the front. Since I am singularly talented and predisposed to yoga and I have all the equipment I knew not to worry: by the end of the month I would be there too.
The month continued and I went to yoga every day after work. I drank a lot of coconut milk and followed the poses as closely as I could. Sometimes the instructor's eyes would meet mine during a particularly difficult pose and I would receive the silent communication: you are doing an amazing job. I am sorry you are stuck in the back with the rest of the losers. You are so talented and soon you will be up here with me.
The last day of class snuck up on me and I was excited to measure my progress from my first day. We began with the normal breathing exercises which I love because they are easy and you don't really have to do anything but they look cool. I was really finding my inner balance and flow by the fifth or sixth move when I chanced a look around. I looked at the champions in the front. I looked at the fat fifty year old woman next to me. My pose looked a lot more like the fat lady's than the limber asian girl at the front of the room. Next pose, same thing. Things continued in this manor until the end of the class and by the time we got to final breathing (my second favorite thing, right behind opening breathing) my alternate yoga reality had come crashing down around me. I was resolutely pushing all the bad, impure air from my stomach when I had to admit the truth: I am not very good at yoga.
I am back to my regular gym routine, and besides being able to touch my toes for the first time in my life, my yoga moves have had little effect on me. It's nothing personal, I looked great in the clothes and had no complaints about the food. Admitting that I am bad at yoga is one thing. But the ramifications it has on my life are immeasurable. What else am I bad at? Design (probably), running (definitely), dancing (goes without saying). The thing is, being honest with yourself is painful. So, in the spirit of keeping moral up and dance injuries to a minimum, I will no longer be attending yoga. If you asked me I'd say it was because of the smell. I'd tell you I was incredible and practically teaching the class when I stopped attending. But the fact of the matter is I just plain suck.
Yoga has always been a special interest of mine, for many reasons. Obviously, the outfits constitute the main appeal, because yogis are always stylishly dressed in choco sandals and climbing pants. The food comes next, yogis are usually drinking coconut milk or eating kashi. They just LOOK so healthy. When someone with a yoga mat is walking down the street the crowd seems to part: God bless your sun salute.
As you can see, the actual yoga practice is pretty far down on the list of things that make yoga appealing but blinded by the opportunity to awaken my spirit and buy new clothes, I didn't see the truth until it was much too late.
On my first day of class I rode the train, yoga mat in hand, watching the people schooch over on the crowded bench to make room for me and my transcendent soul. How cool did I look wearing Ugg boots and organic fabrics on the NRQ train? After my roommate asked me about the class. I had no response but I was quick to show her my new mat and hydrating watermelon drink.
Here is how the class goes: the beginners and people who are extremely athletic and talented though not familiar with the yoga routine (me) sit in the back. The people who are familiar with the routine and somewhat okay at yoga sit in the middle and the people who are super cool and have multiple yoga outfits and can do "standing-head-to-knee" sit in the front. Since I am singularly talented and predisposed to yoga and I have all the equipment I knew not to worry: by the end of the month I would be there too.
The month continued and I went to yoga every day after work. I drank a lot of coconut milk and followed the poses as closely as I could. Sometimes the instructor's eyes would meet mine during a particularly difficult pose and I would receive the silent communication: you are doing an amazing job. I am sorry you are stuck in the back with the rest of the losers. You are so talented and soon you will be up here with me.
The last day of class snuck up on me and I was excited to measure my progress from my first day. We began with the normal breathing exercises which I love because they are easy and you don't really have to do anything but they look cool. I was really finding my inner balance and flow by the fifth or sixth move when I chanced a look around. I looked at the champions in the front. I looked at the fat fifty year old woman next to me. My pose looked a lot more like the fat lady's than the limber asian girl at the front of the room. Next pose, same thing. Things continued in this manor until the end of the class and by the time we got to final breathing (my second favorite thing, right behind opening breathing) my alternate yoga reality had come crashing down around me. I was resolutely pushing all the bad, impure air from my stomach when I had to admit the truth: I am not very good at yoga.
I am back to my regular gym routine, and besides being able to touch my toes for the first time in my life, my yoga moves have had little effect on me. It's nothing personal, I looked great in the clothes and had no complaints about the food. Admitting that I am bad at yoga is one thing. But the ramifications it has on my life are immeasurable. What else am I bad at? Design (probably), running (definitely), dancing (goes without saying). The thing is, being honest with yourself is painful. So, in the spirit of keeping moral up and dance injuries to a minimum, I will no longer be attending yoga. If you asked me I'd say it was because of the smell. I'd tell you I was incredible and practically teaching the class when I stopped attending. But the fact of the matter is I just plain suck.
See No Evil, Hear No Evil
For the last two months I have been working at a biomedical lab as a technician. This not only gives me a unique perspective on the industry, but a myriad of bazaar encounters I can use at will to delight my friends. One of my recent endeavors occurred with the woman I work with in the morning named Susan.
It was on my second week of work that they finally left me, unchaperoned, in the dish room with her. It occurred to me that we had never been alone together before and I wondered what we would talk about. She seemed normal enough. She had a husband who taught at the high school and kids older than me. So I was guessing normal stuff, recipes, weather, maybe a movie she had seen on OnDemand. I was trying to sort out something original to ask her when she surprised me by making the first move.
"Do you know any witnesses?" she asked. That caused me to pause and think... witnesses? Did she know my sister had been out that day for jury duty? Was she asking about the murder trial in the Cape Cod Times this week? I knew the kid, we went to high school together, but I had hardly witnessed him killing a tourist in a drive-by.
"Oh yes," I responded, enthusiastically, "Why just the other day I witnessed the funniest thing..." When I trailed off. The gold chain around her neck flashed in the UV light and I realized what type of witnesses she was asking about. "Erm- Actually, no. No, I don't." Silence.
Since my parents denounced organized religion when they were baked in 1978 my family has been actively celebrating the winter solstice for thirty two years. The last time I was in a church was a school tour of Salem, Massachusetts in third grade. All I could hope for was that Susan didn't ever touch my skin. I was sure I would burn.
The next week passed with no more mention of Witnesses, the jury kind or the religious affiliation. I was beginning to think I was in the clear when one day Susan sat down next to me at lunch and pressed a stack of vouchers into my hand. The title of the first brochure read, "Is God Responsible for Natural Disasters?" and any doubt that Hell did in fact exist was erased my mind. I was going to burn. Forever.
I threw out the brochures as soon as she walked away because I figured at this point, there was little hope of redemption. Besides, I had kind of gotten used to my heathen lifestyle and the food was was great so what was the point? But the next day she asked me about it again, and I had to admit I had not read the brochures. Not even the one titled "A Visit to a Chinese Pharmacy" which might have, at the very least, been culturally enriching.
I told her the truth. "Susan, although I do not believe God is responsible for natural disasters, I have been to a Chinese pharmacy and the tea is quite good. Your brochures were very helpful. Thank you."
The blank look in her face told me this was not the response she was expecting. Combativeness she could have handled. Denial would have been even better. Susan knew how to refute any argument against her way of believing. A conversation about herbal tea? That was not part of the recruitment training. Baffled, she walked away, muttering to herself.
Victory was sweet. Or so I thought.
Later that day I passed her walking with a coworker. I heard her say, "The new tech is a little slow. What a shame, such a nice girl."
Oh well.
It was on my second week of work that they finally left me, unchaperoned, in the dish room with her. It occurred to me that we had never been alone together before and I wondered what we would talk about. She seemed normal enough. She had a husband who taught at the high school and kids older than me. So I was guessing normal stuff, recipes, weather, maybe a movie she had seen on OnDemand. I was trying to sort out something original to ask her when she surprised me by making the first move.
"Do you know any witnesses?" she asked. That caused me to pause and think... witnesses? Did she know my sister had been out that day for jury duty? Was she asking about the murder trial in the Cape Cod Times this week? I knew the kid, we went to high school together, but I had hardly witnessed him killing a tourist in a drive-by.
"Oh yes," I responded, enthusiastically, "Why just the other day I witnessed the funniest thing..." When I trailed off. The gold chain around her neck flashed in the UV light and I realized what type of witnesses she was asking about. "Erm- Actually, no. No, I don't." Silence.
Since my parents denounced organized religion when they were baked in 1978 my family has been actively celebrating the winter solstice for thirty two years. The last time I was in a church was a school tour of Salem, Massachusetts in third grade. All I could hope for was that Susan didn't ever touch my skin. I was sure I would burn.
The next week passed with no more mention of Witnesses, the jury kind or the religious affiliation. I was beginning to think I was in the clear when one day Susan sat down next to me at lunch and pressed a stack of vouchers into my hand. The title of the first brochure read, "Is God Responsible for Natural Disasters?" and any doubt that Hell did in fact exist was erased my mind. I was going to burn. Forever.
I threw out the brochures as soon as she walked away because I figured at this point, there was little hope of redemption. Besides, I had kind of gotten used to my heathen lifestyle and the food was was great so what was the point? But the next day she asked me about it again, and I had to admit I had not read the brochures. Not even the one titled "A Visit to a Chinese Pharmacy" which might have, at the very least, been culturally enriching.
I told her the truth. "Susan, although I do not believe God is responsible for natural disasters, I have been to a Chinese pharmacy and the tea is quite good. Your brochures were very helpful. Thank you."
The blank look in her face told me this was not the response she was expecting. Combativeness she could have handled. Denial would have been even better. Susan knew how to refute any argument against her way of believing. A conversation about herbal tea? That was not part of the recruitment training. Baffled, she walked away, muttering to herself.
Victory was sweet. Or so I thought.
Later that day I passed her walking with a coworker. I heard her say, "The new tech is a little slow. What a shame, such a nice girl."
Oh well.
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