When the Clock Stops

I want it to make sense and not in the plausible way that everything makes sense-- the analytical way that everything in this universe can sort of add up together to make it make sense. I'm not a numbers girl and I don't make perfect sense of the way things should be, but rather the way things could be. I can't have it both ways even though I don't know it any other way. I can't have it any way, either way. I want it to be that way, either way, sometimes--but mostly one way. It's one or the other but not both. It never is. It never was. I don't want it to be-- I want it to feel. I want it to line up-- to stop, to think that suddenly everything that has lead to this point was drawn with an extra fine line-- to lift the thoughts up and release them. To let go completely and totally. To just be. I want to think about the past and for once not think about how it affects me now still, or how you've done unto me, how you've mastered me still, even after all these years, how you affect me and reflect me. How you oppose me. How you appall me. I don't want to be what you see in the mirror-- I want to be what I feel in the dusk's glow. I want to let it go like a tadpole in a giant pond; I want to swim away with my fins, furiously through the seas, the high seas. I want to end up in a calm lake that makes sense--where its natural and I can burrow my nest in the deep weeds that lie upon the spongy earth. I want the sunlight to reach my bed and warm the earth--to fill my head with deep, profoundly real knowledge, not the kind of clutter that does nothing but take up space. I do not want the dust. I want it to make sense, and not because I made it make sense, but because it makes absolute sense. Because it is. It does. It will. I don't want to rationalize or idealize; I want it to line up, the way planets do, the way people do. The two ideas, the two minds, the two differences, the sameness that you bear. I want it. I want it to make sense.

She Is

In the four years that I've been living in NYC, I've never once spent a Memorial Day Weekend here. I always seem to have travel plans or worst case scenario, I flee to the quiet familiarity of the small town, the parade and the lakeside BBQ. This year as the weekend got closer and closer I realized that I would be staying in NYC for the long weekend. At the last minute my friend decided to visit. The company I work for is generous enough to give us holiday half-days so my weekend was almost four days long. Glorious.

As I sit at this desk struggling to stay awake with every fiber in my being and downing iced coffee as if it were the last drop of liquid on planet earth, I cannot believe that I ever left Manhattan on Memorial Day. The city was empty, the streets and sidewalks were passable, the busses had seats and the weather was amazingly perfect in the I never want this day to end kind of way. There are so many stories and hilarious moments from the past four days that I don't quite think I could list all of them even if I tried (and partially because I only remember about an eighth of them anyways.)

I do however, remember a very unique moment that occurred Sunday night. We had spent most of the day on the roof cooking out and enjoying breath-taking panoramic views of the city. Shortly after dusk, I watched pensively as the lights of midtown twinkled to life. At that moment I realized that I am absolutely and completely in love with this city. I am not ready to leave. I thought I was and my resume still floats out there in cyberspace with companies in Chicago and abroad. But as I stood there, in that moment, New York proved to me once again just how wonderful she really is. Sorry Chicago, you lose again.

Reasonable Exceptions

It's almost June though if you live in the 212 you know it feels more like February or March. Mother nature is clearly either lost or too busy playing havoc with the rest of the world to care about NYC. Waiting for spring/summer to arrive and stay is one of the worst things about living in the Northeast, I think. Traffic comes in a close second but I think the weather easily takes the first place trophy. Since I can't have the kind of weather I want (today, tomorrow or any time this week from the looks of my weather.com widget) here is a list of things I will accept instead:

- My boss allowing me put 'master of the universe' or 'wizard in training' on my business card
- A business-first class ticket to Argentina
- A giant pineapple sliced in perfect circles. Perfect.
- A magic wand or the ability to teleport. Or both.
- A €3 bottle of wine from the Monoprix in Paris
- An empty white sandy beach, clear blue water and a red stripped beach towel (and SPF 28)
- An unopened box of the original Crayola™ 48
- A darkroom in my basement, a basement in my building
- Trademark approval for the company I'm [thinking about] launching this fall

Then

Before I moved to NYC I don't think I ever owned an umbrella. I mean I probably had one in the trunk of my car, but I never thought about it, or used it. Now I own four or five umbrellas, polka dot rain boots AND a rain jacket.

Before I moved to NYC I drove my car to class, which was probably 300 yards away from where I lived. Now I walk to and from work or to and from the subway, either way racking up about four or five miles a day, sometimes in the rain, sleet or snow.

Before I moved to NYC I was deathly afraid of the subway. Now I ride it at 2 in the morning, sometimes without even thinking.

Before I moved to NYC I was somewhat patient; I waited at crosswalks for the green light; I ate out once or twice a month, now it's everyday. I used to never drink coffee, now it's two or three cups a day; I used to run hardly at all, now it's everyday for miles and miles and miles. I used to sleep in till 2pm; I used to think 2am was late; I used to come home smelling like smoke; I used to smoke (!) I used to take vodka shots and chase them with water; I used to think people were following me home; I used to not know how to navigate the bus routes; I used to wear leather pants; I used to care and I once used to love.

Right Before I Fainted

Things that while may seem out of bit out of context, I never thought I'd hear myself say but have found myself saying. Out loud. In real conversations.

• I'm trying to be more careful about what I buy due to the food shortage.
  
• We're actually starting to feel the effects of the recession.
• I'm tired of the hustle. There's just too many people in Manhattan!
  
• I think we're actually headed for a depression.
• $1500 [for rent] isn't that much when you think about it. (YES! IT IS!)
  
• I'm going for a run tonight and I'm actually kind of nervous about it. What if I can't finish 4 miles?
  
• I won't move within Manhattan again; it's gotten too expensive. It's absurd, really. (Note: it's always been expensive! It didn't just suddenly GET expensive.)
  
• I just can't spend that kind of money right now, especially with the recession.
  
• We'll have to wait and see how that affects my 401K.
• I'm opening an ING direct savings account; their interest rates are unbeatable.
  
• You should be going out every weekend and doing car bombs; not thinking about your career (okay maybe that one isn't so strange)
  
• I can't believe yogurt has gone up 28% (I can't believe I noticed/calculated.)
  
• I just paid $1.25 for this orange.
  
• I ready to move to Brooklyn. Or Chicago.
  

Nothing is Everything

I always miss things more when I don't have them. We all do. It's a fact of life. A few days ago I fell down the stairs in my apartment and banged myself up pretty good. A four hour trip to the ER confirmed that my foot was not broken, but they sent me home with a cane, a pair of crutches and an ACE wrap and told me to stay off of it for a few weeks. Telling a runner to stay off their feet is like telling an alcoholic not to drink; it only makes us want to do it more. The last time I went more than a week without running or exercising of any kind was when I was on safari in Africa and was told not to, otherwise I would risk being eaten alive by the flesh-eating animals roaming just outside our bungalow walls. Seriously.

Right now I feel restless. I feel like a sloth, like a giant waste of space. There is enough nervous energy flowing through my body to light up the city of Baltimore for an entire week. Or at least it feels that way. I guess I didn't realize how much I depend on running to keep my body in balance, not just physically but mentally. I'd say at this point it's 30/70, meaning I value the mental relief more than the physical aspect, though those who know me really well know that's a tough call for me to make. I'm trying hard to find other outlets to keep myself sane like watching movies, reading and researching. I'd like to be able to get to some museums or take this "break" to explore the city but walking far distances is still a bit painful and slow so that too, is out. The other night I was talking to my parents and my mom asked how I was feeling. When I told her I was bored to tears I could hear my dad shouting in the background "enjoy doing nothing!" That's just it. When I've got a lot going on I crave nothingness. I daydream of empty agenda days and planless nights. I daydream about walking the narrow streets of downtown with nowhere to be, no one to see and no expectations. Then when I have the nothing I don't want it, nor do I know how to enjoy it, especially when the nothing seems like everything.

Yours too, NO WAY!

Last night a friend and I grabbed dinner and drinks before attending a concert at the Garden. At the restaurant we were seated next to a couple, which in some establishments in NYC basically means we were sharing a table with them. They were so painfully awkward to listen to, so painful in fact that my friend actually thought they were on a first date it; it was just that bad. However, being the committed onlooker that I am, I noticed that they were married (both wearing rings.) They were tourists, no doubt, in midtown to see a show, telling not only by what they were wearing but how they talked about the city, the food at this sub-par Italian restaurant and life in general:

Man: So what's your favorite part about musicals?
Woman [pausing]: Um...probably the music. And the sound.
Man [nodding]: Yeah the sound is good.