Note to my dearest darlingest other bloggers: I found out the hard way that Google Reader only holds your posts for up to a month. So I've been having marathon reading sessions that involve me catching up on TWO MONTHS of your wonderful posts and then comment-bombing you for the next hour. Poor Mynx got about 80 of my comments while she was trying to enjoy her breakfast. And Michael got comment-bombed for three days straight. I apologize in advance for all the caps lock comments about to descend on your blog. If your blog hasn't been attacked with a nonstop hail of capital letters and exclamation points that is a Nicki Comment, fear not, YOUR TIME WILL COME. And you will feel so smothered with bloglove you'll wish I'd go back to neglecting you. But that's how this catch-up thing works, baby. So PREPARE TO BE UTTERLY CRUSHED WITH MY LOVE.
Note #2: Thanks so much to Michael for helping me realize that I need to let this blog grow along with me, not stay stagnant with who I was. Thanks so much to Michael for having the COURAGE to trust that her audience will grow with her—and if it doesn't—there'll be a new audience around the corner, one who's ready for what you have to say. We all grow, and we all change, and so will our audience. AND THAT'S OKAY.
Note #3: Thanks to Celia. For so many things, but mainly, just thanks for 'getting' me.
I'm having a Moment.
As in, "Tacos are having a moment," "Cupcakes are having a moment," "Rebecca Black had a moment and thank GOD that moment is over."
But this, this is a moment. I've spent two shaky, unsteady years trying to Figure It All Out. Figure Out What I Want in Life. And finally, finally I've found something I want.
I want to keep working where I'm working, keep doing what I'm doing. I'm deliriously happy. I feel right. I feel I've finally landed someplace where I belong.
Yeah. I know how damn cheesy that sounds. But when you've done so many things that just aren't quite right–something you force yourself into, cram yourself in a box and hope no one notices your elbows stick out or your dress is too tight or that you're wearing different-colored shoes or that your shirt is inside out or that you ONLY SHAVED ONE LEG IN THE SHOWER THIS MORNING (all of which I've actually done, by the way)—
to have something that fits you like it was made for you is so wonderfully, blissfully, gorgeously perfect.
But before I get too Susie Sunshine on you, let's remember that it's not permanent. I'm just a lowly freelancer (which, let's face it, is really just a wonderfully artsy way of saying "temp."). But instead of dwelling on the fact that This Too Shall Pass, I'm going to focus on my Moment.
I will never be a City Girl. Mostly because I refer to it as City Girl in my head, with capital letters. I come from rural—We-Don't-Even-Have-a-
So every time I board the subway, cross the street, enter a café, walk the sidewalk, I'm a visitor, a stranger, an alien marveling at new life. A running narrative runs through my head: Look! Look at me commuting! I'm commuting! Look, Mom! Look at me reading my newspaper on the subway! I'm a well-informed city dweller who's using environmentally-friendly transportation!
Look! Look at me entering the coffeeshop before work! I have a coffeeshop near my work! AND IT'S NOT A DUNKIN' DONUTS! OR a Starbucks! Look at me talking with the cashier! Look at me complimenting her Muppets shirt! Look at me not being unbearingly, embarrassingly awkward!
Look at me with my overpriced coffee, entering my workplace! Look at my desk! I have a desk in the city! I can hear the subway outside and someone honking! Whoa, now there are two people—three people—oh for chrissakes, there are four people honking right outside my window— SHUTTHEF***UP, PEOPLE OUTSIDE MY WINDOW!
Look at me, getting annoyed at bad drivers in the city!
Look at the crack addict sitting next to me on the subway! Look at me not freaking out about the crack addict sitting next to me on the subway! Look, ma! He's a human too! We're coexisting! He smells awful! I can smell him, Mom! I'm not freaking out even though I can smell him!
So this Moment—this wonderful, wonderful Moment of citydwelling and cityliving—is just about as exciting as a city dweller escaping to the country and seeing a deer or a rabbit or whatever the hell else you city kids think is novel about the country. (If I see a rabbit or a deer, I'm more apt to want to skin it and eat it, not photograph it or say Ohhh, honey, look at Bambi!)
I bought some new clothes. It's part of my Moment. If I'm going to work in a office, I might as well look the part. I'm wearing a new dress right now. It has a sheer black mock Peter Pan collar. I am wearing a goddamn Peter Pan collar. I look like Rachel Berry stepped off the screen of Glee and had a torrid affair with a lesbian wearing combat boots. It's part of my Moment.
My tights are from H&M. I went to the store after work. I actually entered a chain, reasonably hip store by choice. No one forced me. I did not immediately leave. I was not startled by the loud music or aggressively dressed mannequins. Not being intimidated by fashionably dressed inanimate objects is part of my Moment.
My tights were $1. I did not know this until I braved the lines to get to the cashier wearing about 80,000 silver bracelets on her arm. Her earrings were bigger than my head. "These are on sale. One dollar. You luckyyyyyy," she said. I beamed at her. "Thank you! I am! I AM luckyyyyyyy!"
And readers, I feel luckyyyyyyyy. Lucky to be working someplace I love (for no matter how long), lucky to live in a city that constantly delights and confounds me, lucky to feel like a Real Person Doing Real Things With Her Life, lucky to have a Chinatown and a Book Festival and a Cape Cod and even a godforsaken Duck Tour, yes, lucky, lucky to have a man that I love, lucky that his hands can stitch wounds and fillet fish, lucky to have two dogs, a sunny kitchen, a wide open yard; lucky to have, lucky to dream, lucky to want, lucky to be.