One life from another? One path, one career, one place to call home?
I’ve never been one for metaphors. I’m sort of a you-get-what-you-see kind of a gal. I’m all easy-to-understand colloquialisms. Direct. Simple, even. Literal. I lack mystery, I lack intrigue. I don’t write poetically, I don’t even know how to. I end sentences with prepositions. And start them with conjunctions. I’m not eloquent and that’s okay.
Moving back to my hometown is so bittersweet. On the one hand, it’s exactly what I want and I can’t imagine a better life than the one I can lead there. On the other hand, leaving New York somehow feels like some intense failure. Leaving New York without having accomplished…I don’t even know–some level of success, fame, fortune, something!
I have not lived in my hometown as an adult. Ever. So, realistically I have no idea what to expect. It’s possible that we will be earth-shatteringly, ridiculously, unbelievably happy there (I hope!). But, it’s just as possible that we will get there and be like, wait what? What the fuck is this?
You weigh these giant things (housing, transportation, family, education) and make pros and cons lists and try to imagine where you and your family will be happy and inspired. And, then you just jump. You stop thinking about the lists, you stop concerning yourself with all the things you’ll leave behind and focus, instead, on all the things you have to look forward to.
Then, in a state of total confusion and anxiety, you remind yourself that it is not wise to focus solely on what will be better or else you doom yourself to disappointment and depression. For, it is true that you will be overjoyed by the ease of grocery shopping. But, you will be equally dismayed by the non-co-op prices that will keep you from ever buying spices or fancy cheeses again.
And, so. Life. Life at its very best and its very worst. Present becomes past and future becomes present. And, past becomes present in my case. If you get what I mean. Oh, it’s all so confusing and a jumble of emotions. And soooo muCH STRESS! Just gobs and gobs of it. No matter how much you plan ahead. No matter how far in advance you begin the process of packing up your life and purging your past. No matter how many outings you make in preparation for the big goodbye. No matter how many farewells you amass. It will never be enough and it will always feel like too much.
And, so. You can’t win. Or, if you look at it in a different light: you can’t lose. If it will never be enough, stop trying to make it so. And, then magically, the stress sort of falls away. We will be back in New York–this is not the last time we will be in this city. And, in fact, coming back as a tourist allows much more room to do all of the things you want to do when you are stressed out and working too hard and overburdened by a crazy life. Tourists have all the time in the world. Nowhere to go and everyone to see. So, tea at The Plaza a la Eloise will have to wait. The famous Brooklyn Pizza off the J street Q train can happen next year. Whatever. It’s fine.
For now, it’s all about getting out and enjoying the process (as much as is humanly possible). And, let’s not kill each other in the process, husband. Okay? Because wow, people aren’t kidding when they say moving is tough on a marriage. All those big decisions and two people–each with their own attachments and ways of dealing with stress, each with their own expectations and ways of communicating. And, wow. It’s not easy. It is, in fact, quite difficult.
As I lay stretched out on my rainbow yoga mat, staring at the beautifully shaped ass of my 22-year-old colleague I couldn’t help but have a twinge of nostalgia. For being able to dress however I wanted. For dying my hair and piercing my body parts. For eating anything and everything and suffering no metabolic consequences. Am I old? Or, am I just around too many young people?
Being a teacher sort of ages you. “Ages” isn’t quite the right term. It places you in a professional stratosphere that automatically gives you respect and power–which, feels like something that comes with “age.” Spending your days with little kids doesn’t make you feel old. It makes you feel young, playful, energetic, silly. Yes, you are exhausted by the end of the day in a way that your tiny-human counterparts are not. But, you feel young at heart. And, for the first ten or so years, you are younger than the parents of your students. Which contributes to a second level of power and prestige.
When you work with millennials and listen to their conversations–sometimes beautifully thoughtful and thought-provoking about gender and class; sometimes absurd, about sick dance parties and hilarious hookups; and sometimes offensive, “it’s just that I really thought my parents were going to keep paying my phone bill until I was, like, at least 25″–it gets you thinking about your own world. The small little bubble that you live in–filled with parenting tips and toddler tantrums, meal-planning and grocery lists, bills and savings accounts. Versus the little bubble that they live in–hookups and trash-talking, parent-drama and student loans, friendships ending and new relationships blooming. Certainly there are similarities in our lives–sometimes I come in and Glynis tells me that we are twins, wearing cuffed boyfriend jeans and oversized sweaters. Other times I come in with aches and pains, marriage woes and mom-struggles, angst over why we can’t afford to buy a damn house and we just feel decades apart. Our priorities, our goals, our relationship to the world around us. We are looking at the same sky but seeing very differently shaped clouds.
I read an article a few years ago about how much the people around you impact your life. Sounds obvious. But, this article claimed that we were not only affected by our friends and family but also by their friends and families. That, in fact, we were being shaped by people 3 steps removed from our circle. And, not just affected in an emotional sense but in many ways we are being molded by others: the way we eat, the music we listen to, our outlook on the world, our daily emotional state–whether we are prone to anger or calm, taking deep breaths or becoming anxious. This frightened me at the time. I was teaching with a nasty human who was angry at the world and angry at herself. She seethed with animosity and jealousy, rage and fear. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I am going to become like her.” I’ll start eating snickers bars for lunch and listening to Michael Buble! The horrror!
Of course, it isn’t so simple. We don’t just emulate the people around us, we are affected in subtler but deeper ways than I think we can even pinpoint. I’m not sure how Patricia affected me. Is it her fault that I am more defensive than I used to be? Can I attribute my fear of being alone to Danielle who bought a dog so she would never have to sleep solo? Did Rachel make me a better friend? Did Sara make me more courageous? Is Julie the reason I can stand up for myself? Can I thank Adam for my sense of humor? We are shaped by our circumstances, we are shaped by our families (whether we want to be or not), we are shaped by our choices and our education and our neighborhoods. But where do we end, and the exterior influences that shape us begin?
“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.
She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.
I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.
“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”
It’s amazing to me how much bitching is required in order to process crap situations or encounters. Conversation after conversation retelling the same slight, emphasizing your side in the way only you can, which is to say: without any understanding of the other persons (possibly totally legitimate) perspective. In my head, I am like, so evolved–a skillful communicator, problem-solver, capable of being unemotional, objective and compassionate all at once. But, really, I’m mostly just wading in a pool of toxic emotions–a place where envy and self-doubt reign supreme–where judgments, misunderstandings, inconsistencies and pure acrimony live amongst dread and apathy. This is an image of myself that just doesn’t fit with the one I have in my head. It’s discouraging to upset the portrait of this joyful, optimistic, driven and contented person. The thing that is even more difficult to grasp is the fact that in reality, I am both. Perhaps not all at once. But, certainly I am one thing in one moment and another under contrasting circumstances.
Upon playfully teasing my hubby about his snoring it came out that the reason he gets so defensive when I report the behavior is because being “someone who snores” just doesn’t fit with his own self-image. I laughed at first but then it made complete sense to me. There are all of these things–the way we look, the way we respond to situations, where we work, what we wear, how we speak–that define the version of ourselves we have in our heads. When someone on the outside challenges one of those things–however small the detail may seem to them–it completely breaks down that self-image. “But, I’m quirky, eccentric, unpredictable! It’s a good thing, right? Right?” I found myself saying during an argument where my husband scolded me for something or other I had said–something that seemed lighthearted and funny and joke-y and me. There are things about myself that I believe. I believe them wholeheartedly and any attempt to undermine the me-ness of me is an attack on who I am at my core. In my head these things are unchangeable and factual and permanent. But, they’re not. We grow, we change–slowly sometimes, more quickly other times–sometimes without even realizing it. Our “higher selves” exist as an idea, a goal–as someone who would have, should have, could have said something more intelligent, less reactionary, more eloquent.
I’d really like to meet this idealized version of me. The version of me who always knows the right thing to say, who always looks put-together, who is kind but strong, intelligent and funny, self-assured and self-aware. This is the version I could use right now. Because if life is a mountain–with highs and lows and everything in between–then I am in the river basin looking up, paddling against the current in a starless sky. And, she’d sure as shit know what to do.
In my experience, watching people flee this place, there seem to be only a few ways to leave NYC:
1. “The big fuck you.” When New York has skinned you alive. You leave filled with animosity for a city that is relentless and cruel. The New York you know is merciless, dark, dangerous, hateful. You leave broke and broken, forever changed by the darkness you felt.
2. The, “I’m done with you.” New York no longer fits your needs, or fulfills your lifestyle requirements. You’re not pissed, New York just doesn’t offer you what you need. Whether it’s a new school, new job, a small town, a change of scenery, a different pace of life–it’s not here, it’s somewhere else. You leave knowing that there’s something better out there for you but grateful for what you’ve learned from this sometimes wonderful, sometimes awful, city.
3. The “Nooooo!” exit where you leave kicking and screaming. Your partner gets a job elsewhere, you get into a school, but not in New York. You just CANNOT afford it. You are devastated to leave behind the most exciting and beautiful city in the world. You preemptively long for the skyscrapers, the beautiful brownstones, and late nights, the takeout and public transportation. You spend the next two years romanticizing life in the city, depressed, and forlorn, unable to move forward with your non-NYC life.
4. The “whatevs” ambivalent exit. I could stay I could go, easier to go. I’ll come back to visit. Not too many of these. The people in this category know they aren’t lifers. They come to experience the “energy” but are always talking about their plan to return to their small hometowns.
Where do I fit in? A little from column A, a little from column B. Throw in a little C and D just for kicks.
so, i’m having one of those days. you know the kind. maybe i’m having one of those weeks, even. where punctuation just seems superfluous and getting dressed feels like an overwhelming task. forget showers. and, who needs makeup these days? i don’t know exactly why. moving stress. pressure to see people and do things. keeping track of way too many things in my brain: moving van, packing materials, medical records, refilling prescriptions, selling this dresser, giving this shelf away, bringing these four bags to the thrift store, bringing this box to the used book store, scheduling dental appointments, finishing up work tasks, doing all those last-minute new york city must-do things! it’s just too much. and, we’re trying to be all on top of shit by packing early but really we just keep spending time with our friends because…when will we see them again?! and, you know, we’re not cooking enough and we may have gotten rid of our plates a tad too early and we can’t replace the grapeseed oil because how can we go through a bottle in 3 weeks but also HOW WILL I MAKE POPCORN?!
so, i think it’s safe to say that the stress has officially gotten to me.
i’m not sleeping, i’m eating a lot of chocolate and my belly has that constant butterfly feeling like i’m about to get onstage and perform.
we got a tree. i thought it would make me feel all, in-the-spirit and festive. i just keep looking at that thing with total animosity. it’s got a real attitude problem, let me tell you. it’s just sitting in the corner of our livingroom being all beautiful and put together, staring into our chaos and judging. it’s a judgy little fucker, i mean it. tall, perfectly “tree”-shaped (some might say a bit too perfect, really. i mean, come on. show off), it’s all sparkly and calm and it just stands around. doesn’t offer to help out or pick up. it’s not doing any of the cooking and that bitch can drink! i mean, we are filling her bucket up at least once a day.
so between my judgy tree and the million tasks i’m attempting to stay on top of and still working full-time and a toddler who is becoming less and less comfortable with her dwindling book collection…things are about to get real. like, life is changing in a huge way ‘real’. like, everything you have known and everything you thought you wanted is about to be in your past ‘real’. like, the place you ran from, the place you thought you would never return to is about to be your future ‘real.’ and, truthfully it all sounds a bit terrifying. wonderful and filled with potential. exciting and exhilarating. and also gut-wrenchingly terrifying.
It comes out of nowhere, oozing edges from the depths of my insides and just sticks–to the underside of my skull and the inner membrane of my ears. To the back of my throat and the tips of my lungs. It stays, takes up residence for a while–turning blue skies into deep seas. Stretched out, creeping into all that lies ahead and consuming all that is left behind. And then it’s gone. I hardly even remember how it got there–how long it stayed or exactly how I felt being in the dark for so long. Then the cloud comes briefly overhead, blocking out the sun, just for a moment. Long enough to remind me that I cannot control the weather–not the direction of the wind, the depth of the snow or the fullness of the moon. That in fact, I am helpless to shadows. And so, I welcome them back like an old friend. Come on in, I say. Won’t you stay for tea?