Thursday, August 30, 2012

On The Ways You Know

These are the ways you know you are a New Yorker in your twenties:

Your therapist texts you. Often.

You know certain neighborhoods from the boys that you used to date. You even base directions off of the apartments you fell asleep in, tucked in their arms: "three blocks past where M used to live", "just around the corner from D". (You feel especially grateful for the ones who taught you the parts of New York that don't have streets with numbers. Lower East Side, I'll conquer you yet.)

You know how to dodge and weave through tourists while carrying two large bags, a laptop and a Starbucks.

And speaking of, you know where every Starbucks within walking distance is, which ones have the tolerable bathrooms, and which ones have the nicest baristas. (You also have a fierce gift for knowing where every Duane Reade is.)

Roofdecks and washer and dryers mean rich people.

You are almost always running from one thing to the next. Work to friends to dinner to class to the gym to your apartment to the park.. it goes on and on.

You assume a guy is gay until proven straight almost always and absolutely for the west side. (Perhaps only a show biz thing..)

You call it the train, not the subway, and you know better than to take the G and that there's a good chance the L won't be running on weekends.

You have your favorite cafe, your favorite places to eat, your favorite part of each park, favorite spots to think, and yes, of course, your favorite Starbucks (see above).

You don't really get lost here. If you do, you figure it out or hail a cab.

You spot a bug racing across your floor, casually pick up the object nearest to you, and squash it. This only grosses you out about 10%.

You really like Brooklyn. Like, a lot. And you don't even mind going out to Astoria to visit friends. There is, however, pretty much no chance in hell that you'll go up to Inwood and if you're on the west side, you have to really like someone to go meet them on the east side and vice versa. The East Village and Lower East Side are usually reserved for only those you love the most or really owe.

Luxuries have become: a dishwasher (if joy just rushed through you from reading that word, you are also a young NYC-er), a garbage disposal, buying more than a couple of rolls of toilet paper at once, living on a street that doesn't allow you to hear the garbage truck as it barrels down the street, days where you aren't sweating, going to see a movie in a theatre, getting a pedicure, doing laundry once a week.

You run into friends everywhere. And friends of friends. And that girl you met through so-and-so and that guy you knew from that internship. It feels like everywhere you go, you see someone. It's almost ridiculous.

You still wear heels when you go out, just because. Who cares about the stairs or the walking, you're only young once.

You frequently find yourself at the high line, bed bath and beyond, chelsea market, the brooklyn flea. You are willing to make the pilgrimage to Target, just because it is Target.

You are learning big lessons all of the time.

You are exhausted, giddy, loud, and have blisters on your feet. You are the type of person who announces to the entire internet that you have blisters on your feet.

You instagram and tweet a good portion of your day but sort of judge people who update their Facebook status non-stop.

The place on your corner changes from a bar to a restaurant to a CVS over night and you adjust to each as though it's always been there. (But you still mourn the loss of the Coffee Pot.)

You are not a Carrie nor a Miranda or Samantha or the other one whose name I forget. Oh, Charlotte. You aren't her, either. You're just you and you really couldn't give a fuck about those women from so long ago.

You are late to your next appointment and really need to stop writing this post :)


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