I’m Probably Getting a Cat
When I was 25, I swore I had it figured out. I truly thought I had it all. I was living in a luxury apartment in New York City (it didn’t have a doorman, but it had central air and a roof deck, so, luxury). I was in love and living with the person I thought I was going to marry. I had made the successful transition out of theatre and into the corporate world. I had health insurance and sex on the regular, and I was sure that in a few years time, I’d be sporting a shiny rock on my left hand and getting ready to look at houses in Westchester. I didn’t foresee myself being in New York City past the age of 28.
By the time I turned 27, I had moved to Westchester, but not like I had imagined. My boyfriend had dumped me.I couldn’t afford to keep the luxury apartment myself. And my life of luxury had resulted in me being swallowed up in debt and having no accessible cash outside of my credit cards. I ended up moving in with one of my bosses from work, and her spare bedroom became mine for 2 months. What I had planned out so beautifully had come crashing down in a microsecond. I was single, had lost a parent, and was basically broke.
Pictured here, Our Hero, with the guy she was planning to marry (later, her friends would confess to hating him… things happen for a reason)
I didn’t think at 32 I’d still be in New York. But, here I am.
Hell, even as recently as last year, I was thinking of leaving. This city will eat you alive if you let it, even without a pandemic, and I found myself feeling like it was constantly trying to kill me. I spent a fair amount of time back home in New Hampshire and couldn’t help but be jealous of some of the lives my friends had. Husbands, cars, pools- they were having babies and buying property. And what did I have? Crippling anxiety and a shower that to this day will not stop leaking. I was miserable at work to the point where I thought about quitting almost daily. I was lost and probably depressed.
But, every time I came back to the city after being in New Hampshire, my heart would swell as I drove over the RFK bridge and saw the skyline. Double parked on the street, I’d carry all my shit up four flights of stairs, order Chinese, and feel at peace; I was home. And even on those days when I think I’m ready to torch the whole city and move to a farm in Wyoming, something keeps pulling me back. The twinkle of the barely visible Empire State Building from my bedroom window, the old lady across the street leaning out of her window screaming at her grandson, or even the sounds of the girl downstairs having what must be the most mindblowing sex because WOW IT’S LOUD. Also, as I’m writing this- fireworks are being set off on my street. New York, what in the hell...
I think about the things I do on a normal weekday or weekend, and I’m stunned that this is all because I live in this crazy, stupid city. I can be learning how to weave on a loom on the Upper East Side on Sunday morning and buying rounds of drinks at a drag show in Hell's Kitchen that night. That’s what I’ve always loved about New York- the spontaneity of it all. No day ever goes perfectly to plan- the trains will break, the traffic will suck, and there’s a strong chance of getting trapped on a subway car with someone who refuses to wear headphones. But that’s the city. It is horribly unperfect.
And I know I can’t leave...not yet.
So, what’s changed? I’ve got a new job and it’s one that’s going to keep me in New York for good (if that happens as I think it will). I’m finally out of debt and have started actively contributing to my savings and 401k. I’m going to get my own apartment this fall after 10 years of always having a roommate (or a boyfriend). Maybe I’ll finally accept that I’m going to be here longer than I originally intended. I’ll probably get a cat. I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t think my time in New York has an expiration date right now. That could change, of course...
I’ll let you know after the next ten years pass.
Pictured, Our Hero- toasting to her next adventure (taken the day she signed the offer letter for her new job.
