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.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Rachel Ray knows everything and I can prove it.
It was a lonely president's day Monday when I lay on my couch eating cheerios from the bag and watching daytime television. My weekend house-guests had left and I had not moved since they had hugged me goodbye in the hallway. I should also include that I had not showered or eaten anything other than cereal or coffee for the 6 post-hugging hours that ensued.
Picture me, the image of fitness and health, wasting my way through first Kelly and Regis, the View, part of Montel and finally the Rachel Ray Show.
She was doing a special in honor of the Westminster dog show (a stretch for even a dog lover like Rachel, but whatever) and the focus of the hour was dog grooming. Rachel showed us how to use "EVOO" as a hair treatment for your pooch to make their coat super shiny and get rid of dry doggie skin. I wish I could say I changed the channel, but let's face it, I watched the entire thing.
The next morning I was headed out the door to the gym when I noticed a patch of dry skin by my hairline. I tried to forget about it as I packed my bag but I could not stop glancing in the mirror or parting my hair on that side. I was getting slightly manic about it when the faint image of a shiny, prize winning dog flickered into my mind.
I grabbed a cheap paint brush and a dish from the kitchen a poured a dollop of EVOO on it. You can bet what came next.
I smelled like pizza all day and was beginning to doubt that what might work great for the golden retriever on T.V. might not have the same affect on a brunette from New York. I'll have you know I woke up this morning, doubts eliminated, with the shiniest, non frizzy hair I have ever had in my life. I am sorry I doubted you Rachel, you do in fact know everything.
Picture me, the image of fitness and health, wasting my way through first Kelly and Regis, the View, part of Montel and finally the Rachel Ray Show.
She was doing a special in honor of the Westminster dog show (a stretch for even a dog lover like Rachel, but whatever) and the focus of the hour was dog grooming. Rachel showed us how to use "EVOO" as a hair treatment for your pooch to make their coat super shiny and get rid of dry doggie skin. I wish I could say I changed the channel, but let's face it, I watched the entire thing.
The next morning I was headed out the door to the gym when I noticed a patch of dry skin by my hairline. I tried to forget about it as I packed my bag but I could not stop glancing in the mirror or parting my hair on that side. I was getting slightly manic about it when the faint image of a shiny, prize winning dog flickered into my mind.
I grabbed a cheap paint brush and a dish from the kitchen a poured a dollop of EVOO on it. You can bet what came next.
I smelled like pizza all day and was beginning to doubt that what might work great for the golden retriever on T.V. might not have the same affect on a brunette from New York. I'll have you know I woke up this morning, doubts eliminated, with the shiniest, non frizzy hair I have ever had in my life. I am sorry I doubted you Rachel, you do in fact know everything.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Taking Care of Business
The bathroom is my bitch lover. Whether I'm home or out, the bathroom is where I find sweet relief from everything that is going on around me. When the room is spinning and I drank way to much, I find solace in the bathroom. I hear my name being called from my boss's office at my internship but no one can find me, I'm in the loo. If I have a bad day at my retail job, I hit the head. Even if it's just to wash my hands, the water closet is a safe zone. When I'm on the floor at Pottery Barn, I will wash my hands until they are cracked and bleeding, but no customer would dare to knock on the door and interrupt me.
Like with every passionate relationship, the bathroom comes with a host of quirks and baggage that need to be handled with sensitivity. I like to think I have mastered most encounters but every once in a while, it throws me for a loop.
Last Friday night and Holly and I were pounding $3 beers at a bar in the Lower East Side when I threw my bag into her lap and rushed down the steep stairs to the bathroom.
I had to go so badly and it was really satisfying to sit down for the first time since I had gotten to work around 9:00am that morning and pee. But when I tried to flush the toilet, it wouldnt flush. A moment of hesitation on my part had been made when I reached for the handle. Had the sensitive filly of the bathroom noticed my trepidation?
I went over my options in my head. A second flush would be the obvious choice although everyone else in the bathroom would hear it and know that I had clogged the toilet or done something WORSE. I could lift the top of the toilet off and investigate but again, that would draw too much attention to my cause. I could leave it but the person who came in after me would know what I had done and worse, know what I looked like.
I waited, frozen, for the last person to finish washing their hands and bolted for the door. I let some water drip on my hands on the way out, but I admit, it was not a thorough washing job. I escaped from the room an instant before the other stall door opened. My identity was preserved.
I tried to sit back down and enjoy my beer but I couldn't focus. Holly told me a hilarious story about her brother and I halfheartedly laughed-- my mind was still in the bathroom. Did I really clog the toilet or was I just an innocent accessory in a crime that occurred long before my time? I wondered if the water was still running in the bowl. Maybe if I had jiggled the handle... a myriad of second thoughts ran through my mind as I tumbled the sequence of events over and over again. At this point i had completely stopped paying attention to Holly and was watching the bathroom door intently, judging each person as they left. Did the have the same guilt stricken look I had?
I was considering going to Home Depot, buying a plunger and coming back to investigate when I decided it was time to share my guilt. I interrupted Holly's description of her work day to ask her about the toilet, if it had been clogged when she went to the bathroom too. She thought for a minute and said that it had. Unlike me, she had not given it a second thought, just blamed it on a previous user and gone on her way. She pointed out that because of my over analytical personality led me to become preoccupied in small, menial things. She told me I was being controlling and to lighten up.
I think I just care too much.
Like with every passionate relationship, the bathroom comes with a host of quirks and baggage that need to be handled with sensitivity. I like to think I have mastered most encounters but every once in a while, it throws me for a loop.
Last Friday night and Holly and I were pounding $3 beers at a bar in the Lower East Side when I threw my bag into her lap and rushed down the steep stairs to the bathroom.
I had to go so badly and it was really satisfying to sit down for the first time since I had gotten to work around 9:00am that morning and pee. But when I tried to flush the toilet, it wouldnt flush. A moment of hesitation on my part had been made when I reached for the handle. Had the sensitive filly of the bathroom noticed my trepidation?
I went over my options in my head. A second flush would be the obvious choice although everyone else in the bathroom would hear it and know that I had clogged the toilet or done something WORSE. I could lift the top of the toilet off and investigate but again, that would draw too much attention to my cause. I could leave it but the person who came in after me would know what I had done and worse, know what I looked like.
I waited, frozen, for the last person to finish washing their hands and bolted for the door. I let some water drip on my hands on the way out, but I admit, it was not a thorough washing job. I escaped from the room an instant before the other stall door opened. My identity was preserved.
I tried to sit back down and enjoy my beer but I couldn't focus. Holly told me a hilarious story about her brother and I halfheartedly laughed-- my mind was still in the bathroom. Did I really clog the toilet or was I just an innocent accessory in a crime that occurred long before my time? I wondered if the water was still running in the bowl. Maybe if I had jiggled the handle... a myriad of second thoughts ran through my mind as I tumbled the sequence of events over and over again. At this point i had completely stopped paying attention to Holly and was watching the bathroom door intently, judging each person as they left. Did the have the same guilt stricken look I had?
I was considering going to Home Depot, buying a plunger and coming back to investigate when I decided it was time to share my guilt. I interrupted Holly's description of her work day to ask her about the toilet, if it had been clogged when she went to the bathroom too. She thought for a minute and said that it had. Unlike me, she had not given it a second thought, just blamed it on a previous user and gone on her way. She pointed out that because of my over analytical personality led me to become preoccupied in small, menial things. She told me I was being controlling and to lighten up.
I think I just care too much.
Monday, January 17, 2011
There are two kinds of people in this world.
There are two kinds of people in this world: the huggers and non huggers. I fall into the latter category and I am comfortable with that lifestyle choice. It has the obvious benefits of not compelling me to grind pelvises with casual and although it can increase tension at family gatherings, it is completely worth it 95% of the time.
Opon first meetings people often come away thinking I am cold and introverted. Au contrair however it takes more than a coffee for my true colors to shine. This gives me an air of mystery. I like to think that at least.
The non hugging tends to be a rule I apply to most physical interaction. I also don't let my hands brush casually against people on the train and being a skinny person allows me to avoid further contact once I'm seated.
While people with my condition can make acceptions to the rule in, say a crowded train, these are few and far between and certainly don't apply outside of New York city.
Take the bolt bus for example. You pay your 19 dollars and you get a giant seat, wifi, and your own outlet. You don't consider it a bonus that your seatmate is a 125lb female. You don't get to take the remaining 4 inches in her seat as exea room for your fat ass. You don't get to rest your sweatpanted / ugged leg against her and crush your arms into her side while you shuffle your iPod. One would think that you would notice your seatmate smooshed against the window curled around her purse, frantically texting everyone she knows about you and plotting to choke you to death with your headphones as soon as you fall asleep. Because, bitch, don't think she won't. She is a woman on the edge. Also, when the bus stops at an Arby's in Connecticut, and your now very flat seatmate locates the armrest and puts it down to fend off your huge ass/thigh/entire right side, do not come back and put your entire arm over it into her lap while you adjust your computer. That is just plain rude.
So non-huggers: when you find yourself in this awkward situation (and invariably you will) be the bigger person. Instead of being a bitch and asking the fatty to move, simply pull our your iPhone and begin watching softcore lesbian porn on the bus' free wifi. Loudly. And good luck in this dog-eat-dog world!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wealth Management
What does it mean, to be rich? I have never had money, so the idea that shopping or buying a car would be rewarding is foreign to me. My family doesn't have a lot of money and although my parents are comfortable, there were times when they certainly were not. Putting two kids in private schools and college stressed them and although I never noticed it at the time, we had a few christmases with considerably smaller piles under the tree.
Although I have never spent money without thinking, I have lived alongside people who can, and do. Growing up on Cape Cod, I went to high school with Walt Disney's grandchildren and nannied for people like Nicholas Cage. When my family invested in a snow plow, my neighbors bought the LA Dodgers. It never bothered me that my parents didn't give me a credit card at age 16, or that they didn't finance my college education or buy me a car when I graduated. But when I moved out of their house and into a tiny six floor walk-up in New York City I planned to do a few things differently.
After living on an income near, or below, poverty level for two months while I interned at a small design company I was offered a job as a freelance designer for a giant marketing agency. Although it would be long hours, working late into the night, I agreed to take it. I would be making considerably more than any of my friends who had found full time work in the city. I knew it was going to be tough, but the idea of being able to buy groceries or pay for electricity was music to my ears.
On my first day I left my internship and headed to my new job. I climbed the stairs from the train station on Houston St and noticed the marked difference in environment. Away from the hustle and bustle of Union Square, here the buildings grew straight up from the concrete and the sidewalks were packed with people walking in straight lines, to and from work. Once inside the building I had to be x-rayed by the security guard and my lunch began to turn to bile in my stomach.
When my roommate and I had come to New York to find an apartment we had gone to a few realtor's offices, big rooms with high ceilings but no windows, filled with monitors and computer chords and the hiss of ringing phones. At the time I had sworn I would never live like that and when I stepped inside the design studio, the same feeling of anxiety overcame me and I felt short of breath.
On my first night I sat next to the shift supervisor who did not stop swearing, even to sip his coffee. I looked around me and saw only tired, puffy eyes, glued to the computer. Someone in the office next to us was playing ACDC and as the veins in my forehead constricted, one single tear slid down my cheek.
The next day I left my internship again to go to work. Day two. My feet felt heavy on the pavement but the two block walk to the train seemed to fly by. I stood on the corner of 27th street and looked at the subway station lights. Next to me, the train uptown, the one that took me back to my six floor walkup in Harlem every night. Across the street, downtown to work, misery and riches, all rolled together in a nice, easy to swallow time sheet.
The white walk sign flickered on and people started to move past me, across the street as I turned and rode the local line all the way home, poor, unemployed, and the happiest I had been in two months.
Although I have never spent money without thinking, I have lived alongside people who can, and do. Growing up on Cape Cod, I went to high school with Walt Disney's grandchildren and nannied for people like Nicholas Cage. When my family invested in a snow plow, my neighbors bought the LA Dodgers. It never bothered me that my parents didn't give me a credit card at age 16, or that they didn't finance my college education or buy me a car when I graduated. But when I moved out of their house and into a tiny six floor walk-up in New York City I planned to do a few things differently.
After living on an income near, or below, poverty level for two months while I interned at a small design company I was offered a job as a freelance designer for a giant marketing agency. Although it would be long hours, working late into the night, I agreed to take it. I would be making considerably more than any of my friends who had found full time work in the city. I knew it was going to be tough, but the idea of being able to buy groceries or pay for electricity was music to my ears.
On my first day I left my internship and headed to my new job. I climbed the stairs from the train station on Houston St and noticed the marked difference in environment. Away from the hustle and bustle of Union Square, here the buildings grew straight up from the concrete and the sidewalks were packed with people walking in straight lines, to and from work. Once inside the building I had to be x-rayed by the security guard and my lunch began to turn to bile in my stomach.
When my roommate and I had come to New York to find an apartment we had gone to a few realtor's offices, big rooms with high ceilings but no windows, filled with monitors and computer chords and the hiss of ringing phones. At the time I had sworn I would never live like that and when I stepped inside the design studio, the same feeling of anxiety overcame me and I felt short of breath.
On my first night I sat next to the shift supervisor who did not stop swearing, even to sip his coffee. I looked around me and saw only tired, puffy eyes, glued to the computer. Someone in the office next to us was playing ACDC and as the veins in my forehead constricted, one single tear slid down my cheek.
The next day I left my internship again to go to work. Day two. My feet felt heavy on the pavement but the two block walk to the train seemed to fly by. I stood on the corner of 27th street and looked at the subway station lights. Next to me, the train uptown, the one that took me back to my six floor walkup in Harlem every night. Across the street, downtown to work, misery and riches, all rolled together in a nice, easy to swallow time sheet.
The white walk sign flickered on and people started to move past me, across the street as I turned and rode the local line all the way home, poor, unemployed, and the happiest I had been in two months.
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