It's exhausting being in love with New York
I love being here and I love that anything can happen. I love having two jobs to go to, I love it being hot and sticky all the time, I love that I'm more qualified than the office manager at my unpaid photo agency internship and they're totally underutilizing me, I love that I don't have my own computer or reliable internet access, I love that I don't have nearly enough time to do everything I want and it's already fucking July, I love that I'm a thoroughly pink-collar worker for fifty hours a week now and for the foreseeable forever, I love getting free breakfast twice a week, I love it that they call me mamacita when I walk home at 3 am, I love that one of the celebrated photographers my agency represents is a Birkenstock- and bandanna-wearing Michigan boy I would have laughed at in high school and let's be honest, still laugh at when I see them at Hampshire.
I love that last weekend at work the chef kept grabbing my hand and proposing whenever I came into the kitchen to get a dish, significantly increasing dish-turnoaround time, and the day after offered me a kilo of coke, much of which the 15-year-old busboy snorted off his metrocard right under the security camera. I love that when I wait on most of my customers I feel utter disdain, and that my boss is paternalistic and laughable. I love noticing that I lost ten pounds in my first ten days working, and that I'm now gaining some of it back. I love the eggs benedict with slightly buttery home fries I had last Saturday morning at the most dubiously gay sports bar in Hell's Kitchen (off Times Square, borderline with Chelsea, featuring male England fans crying when they lost). I love that I don't flip out when my former affair cancels our plans for half-price night at La Petite Abeille in favor of looking at apartments with the girlfriend. I love that the other night at work I made eye contact with a beautiful light-haired dark-eyelinered customer by the piano and held it the full length of the floor. (But damn, I always love it when I look at a girl and she doesn't look away.) I love that the only people who can pronounce my name properly are Spanish. I love that the grandfatherly clerk at my supermarket still remembers me even after nine months of unexplained absence. I love that I've been too busy to completely unpack so that after a MONTH, yes, a month at "my" place I'm still living mostly out of suitcases.
I love that everyone I meet wants to see me again.
I love that I'm able to live entirely off other people's money but don't.
I love that out of a random sampling of twenty youngish Manhattanite girls, I am the only one who knows how to pour draft beer properly. I love that in a month I'm going to have to deal with the decision of whether to stay here or go to Spain/France, which is going to determine my life for the next couple years.
I love being able to get anything I want.
I love that there are no words for how gorgeous lower Chelsea is in the morning, night, early afternoon, pretty much all the time; no words.
So here's what I don't love:
1. I really want to get a fruity beer and a Belgian waffle at La Petite Abeille after I get out, but my date for the afternoon cancelled, my other date is in class til 7, and in this case, unlike many others, going alone is unquestionably lame.
2. Ever since I ended my affair, sex with men has become blazingly mediocre. We're not just talking in general here, we're talking every...single...time.
And uh, there's been more than a few times.
Mediocre. Blazingly.
I mean, no great loss, right, but I was just starting to love dating.
I love feeling feelings, and I love having mood swings.
Now I'm going to get some tofu spread, which I also just discovered I love.
Take me, life! Take me!
I love that last weekend at work the chef kept grabbing my hand and proposing whenever I came into the kitchen to get a dish, significantly increasing dish-turnoaround time, and the day after offered me a kilo of coke, much of which the 15-year-old busboy snorted off his metrocard right under the security camera. I love that when I wait on most of my customers I feel utter disdain, and that my boss is paternalistic and laughable. I love noticing that I lost ten pounds in my first ten days working, and that I'm now gaining some of it back. I love the eggs benedict with slightly buttery home fries I had last Saturday morning at the most dubiously gay sports bar in Hell's Kitchen (off Times Square, borderline with Chelsea, featuring male England fans crying when they lost). I love that I don't flip out when my former affair cancels our plans for half-price night at La Petite Abeille in favor of looking at apartments with the girlfriend. I love that the other night at work I made eye contact with a beautiful light-haired dark-eyelinered customer by the piano and held it the full length of the floor. (But damn, I always love it when I look at a girl and she doesn't look away.) I love that the only people who can pronounce my name properly are Spanish. I love that the grandfatherly clerk at my supermarket still remembers me even after nine months of unexplained absence. I love that I've been too busy to completely unpack so that after a MONTH, yes, a month at "my" place I'm still living mostly out of suitcases.
I love that everyone I meet wants to see me again.
I love that I'm able to live entirely off other people's money but don't.
I love that out of a random sampling of twenty youngish Manhattanite girls, I am the only one who knows how to pour draft beer properly. I love that in a month I'm going to have to deal with the decision of whether to stay here or go to Spain/France, which is going to determine my life for the next couple years.
I love being able to get anything I want.
I love that there are no words for how gorgeous lower Chelsea is in the morning, night, early afternoon, pretty much all the time; no words.
So here's what I don't love:
1. I really want to get a fruity beer and a Belgian waffle at La Petite Abeille after I get out, but my date for the afternoon cancelled, my other date is in class til 7, and in this case, unlike many others, going alone is unquestionably lame.
2. Ever since I ended my affair, sex with men has become blazingly mediocre. We're not just talking in general here, we're talking every...single...time.
And uh, there's been more than a few times.
Mediocre. Blazingly.
I mean, no great loss, right, but I was just starting to love dating.
I love feeling feelings, and I love having mood swings.
Now I'm going to get some tofu spread, which I also just discovered I love.
Take me, life! Take me!