There are some things that you can only experience in NYC. As cliché as that sounds it’s true. I’m not trying to imply that all those experiences are good, they’re terrible actually-- crying publicly on the subway, throwing up in a taxi (multiple times in one night), pretending you are okay at a dance party in Williamsburg but all you want to do is roll up into a little ball and cry underneath the DJ booth, and pray to god the L is running on schedule, but it’s the weekend so you know it’s not.
It’s so hard not to relate to “Girls” and “Sex and the City” because those episodes are your life as a lady in the city. People say it’s unrealistic and glamorized for affect, and to an extent, those critics are right. But most of those critics don’t live in the city.
This Friday I was peeing in a hotel room at the Standard Hotel. The whole room (bathroom included) was head –to- toe windows with a surreal view of the Hudson River, which traveled all the way to the Empire State Building.
Now I had the option to close a curtain, but there is something so tranquil about peeing in a fancy dress, with your hair all done up, and staring directly at the Empire State Building, and knowing it’s staring right back at you. That’s respect.
I wouldn’t say I was happy, but I wouldn’t say I was sad either. Content, I guess. Okay, maybe. Present in a moment, for once in my life. Not thinking about the future; not wondering about what could have been done differently in the past.
It was in that moment when I realized I was stuck in a very dramatic scene in my own version of “Girls.” It was either the premiere or finale episode of that season. So much internal conflict within the main protagonist conveyed a feeling of movement in some sort of direction. Something big was going to happen. A huge gesture of chivalry, maybe? An internal triumph?
But in reality, I pulled up my purple tights, flushed the toilet with my cheetah heels, and walked back into the party with no expectations of movement or clarity in my life.
I’m 25, walking back into a fabulous party in the meatpacking district, with a broken heart… Uh.
Hello. Welcome to every fucking episode of “Sex and the City,” ever. God, I’m even writing this now at my desk that overlooks 1st avenue on the upper “upper” east side, it’s so fucking cliché I’m going to hurl.
This summer is hard to explain. Mostly, because it’s stuff I don’t want to talk about yet, and that’s partly the reason I’ve stayed away from writing. A personal forced hiatus, to figure my shit out.
The thing is, I’m not going to figure my shit out. Not this season, at least. None of us are. Anyone who says they have their shit together in 20’s is full of shit, and yes, you are allowed to punch anyone who implies such bullshit.
I wish we’d all just relax. We won’t, I get that. The mentality of this city has forced us to rush to our future, without allowing us to stop and revel in what we have accomplished. Which guys, is a lot.
Just stop for a moment and think about what you’ve done. Yet, we always get caught up in the bad shit: the breakups, the heartaches, the “struggle.”
But if we don’t struggle now, it will never feel as good as it should on the other side. So drink that beer, watch that football game, and realize what you’ve done, and relax. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.
And nothing is more cliché or scarier than that fact alone.