I’m at that age now where my Facebook and
Instagram feeds are rapidly being taken over by wedding pictures, baby photos, SOLD
signs and other telltale I’ve-Got-My-Shit-Together
imagery. Kudos to them, but I know I’m not the only one who is
not-so-secretly scowling at these people. I know this because there was once a
site named UnBaby.me, which replaced images of babies on your timeline with
images of bacon and kittens. Unfortunately the site is no longer, assumedly
because of an inability to keep up with demand.
Well, people, today I’m here to add a new
STFU category of social media friend. Meet the Friend Who Moved to New York and Wouldn’t Shut Up About It. Please
let me preface this launch by saying that he/she (let’s be real, it’s me) by no
means or on any level falls into the I’ve-Got-My-Shit-Together
sub-category. Far from it, actually. I am currently drinking water out of a
jam jar and my five open Google tabs are:
1: Children who remember past lives
2: An image search for different species of
alien
3: Crop circles
4: Do pigeons carry bed bugs?
5: What does STFU stand for? (Because I
wanted to make sure I was using the correct terminology.)
So although, no, I don’t have my shit
together, I have it together enough to recognize that I moved to New York City
and then began speaking and blogging about it almost exclusively, and to
empathize with the hapless people upon which I force my rants. You officially have
permission to unfollow/unfriend/unlike/unlove me, I understand. But right now,
it’s my one-year anniversary with the city I love more than anything and –
scowl as you may – I’m going give it the acknowledgement it deserves, God
dammit.
It was 365 days ago that I traded in Sydney
and all I knew for something a little bigger and less familiar. I was all
sparkly-eyed (from tears of goodbye and excitement), eager and proud of myself.
I always thought that when I finally made my big move, it’d be when a
relationship went sour or I hated my job or where I lived, but, as it so
happened, I left behind a legendary boyfriend, the best job I’d ever had, and a
house that finally felt like the home I’d been searching for since I flew the
coop at 19. Knowing how much I was leaving behind made it even more special – this
wasn’t running, this was chasing; it wasn’t settling, it was searching.
They say time flies when you’re having fun,
so when I add the fast-pacedness of New York City to that theory it’s
really no surprise it feels way too soon for me to be writing this post. I
still need Google maps almost every time I leave the house. I still haven’t
been to the Top of the Rock, seen a Broadway show, visited the Met or looked up
the Statue of Liberty’s skirt.
But I don’t care about that stuff. I’ll get
there eventually. To be honest, I didn’t have any expectations as to what I’d
find or do here. I do know, though, that if I did have expectations, I’d be
disappointed. I’d be disappointed because in waiting for them to be met, I
wouldn’t have been present to appreciate the unexpected that so defines this
crazy-ass place.
If I expected a relationship, I wouldn’t
appreciate my head spinning variety of bad date stories. If I wanted space, I
wouldn’t have noticed that I was brushing shoulders with some of the world’s
most amazing people, not to mention I’d be stuck in the dreaded empty subway
car wondering why I came to this city in the first place. If I expected a
rose-scented neighborhood, I wouldn’t appreciate the way being able to smell
the nearby garbage dump for the first time in months signifies the end of
winter and the start of all the excitement of spring and summer. If I’d
expected New Yorkers to be the assholes that the world seems to think they are,
maybe I wouldn’t have noticed that nothing is further from the truth.
I’ve found love here that would have been
incomprehensible to me just a year ago. Not just in the friends I’ve made, but
my love for the city. Chatting to colleagues today they asked me what I did on
the weekend.
Me: “Oh, it’s my one year anniversary so
did brunch and drinks and just celebrated.”
Them: “Oh, is your boyfriend Australian too
or did you meet him here?”
I guess, yes, I did meet him here, but New
York is clearly female. A bitchy, amazing, self-assured mother/wife/mistress.
Before I came here I always thought there were three deciding forces in my
life: Karma, the Universe, and my attitude. I worked well under these three
conditions. I didn’t always understand the way they did what they did, but I
always trusted that they would. I mean, the fact that I’m not a checkout chick
sometimes still astounds me, so I have a lot to thank this awesome threesome
for (get your minds out of the gutter – that’s a whole other blog). Most of
all, they scored me the only goal I'd ever cared about: they brought me to New
York.
Now that I’m here though, I realize that
there is a fourth, much more powerful player. The City. If I have a bad day in
Sydney, it’s just a bad day. When I have a bad day in New York, it’s the city
kicking my ass. When it’s good, it’s her. When you fall, she tripped you and is
laughing about it; when you’re standing tall, she’s the one holding you up.
It’s strange being here and realizing I’ve
achieved the only goal I ever had. I now have a seemingly clean slate of hopes
and dreams to fill, though I don’t need or want much. I don’t need to change
the world, own it, or run it - it’s exciting enough to live among the people who
do. Maybe soon their I’ve-Got-My-Shit-Together
vibe will rub off on me (minus the baby photos. I’ll never have my shit that together). If it does though, I’ll
still always write about New York, I’ll just be in a different sub-category. So
if you were thinking about unfollowing/unfriending/unliking/unloving me in protest to my sickening professions of love, you definitely should – I plan on a long and annoying love affair with this
city that only gets stronger as the years pass. If I have it my way, I'll still be smacking her ass when I'm 70.
Happy Anniversary, New York. Thank you
for being everything I never expected and so much more.
