In a New York state of mind...

Walking the streets of New York as a visitor is drastically different than being there as a resident.  I lived in the big apple (in Astoria, Queens) for the better part of my twenties and returning there for a visit last month made me feel a way I never wanted to feel: tourist-y.  (I was also suffering from pms so it's safe to say my emotions were really running the hormonal gamut.)

We arrived on a Thursday so Hubby could play a gig at the Canal Room with his former band.  He had rehearsal that night, so I was heading over to see my old pal Vanessa.  Standing outside the Doubletree at 51st and Lex around 5:45 pm, I gave Hubby a smooch and was on my merry way.  It was just like old times!  Only I didn't live there anymore.  (Wuh-Wuh.)

Would people be able to tell I was an out-of-towner? 

"Which direction is Third?" I asked a blond woman in scrubs walking a tiny dog.  Sigh.  I was rusty, all right.  The kicker was, I knew which direction Third was, so why on earth did I ask?     

Vanessa's husband was away for the weekend so the two of us were left to our own girlish devices.  What this specifically means for us is: the swillage of a fair amount of wine (hiccup), lots of estrogen fueled, soulful chatter, followed by unabashed song and dance.  Basically, it's musical theatre geekery on steroids.  I don't know about you, but I like that in a Thursday evening. 

We dialed our friend Jamie just as the Les Miz medley began:

"Do you hear the people sing?  Singing the song of angry men...it is the music of the people who will NOT be slaves again!"

"Who IS this?" the confused man on the other end asked.  He had a thick Asian accent and sounded a little frightened.  Turns out we'd dialed the wrong number.  Woopsie.

The next afternoon, Hubby wanted to walk through Central Park.  I remember the days not too long ago when I'd spend my lunch hour doing just that.  For whatever reason, being there again filled me with an inexplicable heaviness of heart.  I felt as if some menacing spirit were pressing its hands down upon my chest.  (Drama!)

I'm not a mysterious kind of spouse; when Hubby asked me what was the matter I merely replied I was feeling an overwhelming feeling of oppressive sadness.  (So I have a penchant for the melodramatic, what do you want from me?) 

It's just...Hubby and I constructed eight years of memories there, and it seemed they were closing in on us from every direction.  Even those crappy $4 pretzels filled me with a certain nostalgia.  (And still, through my temporary malaise, I mustered up the energy to wonder...where do those street vendors go to take a wizz?)

I'd been very concerned that Hubby would feel homesick for the city when we arrived, but in the end it was myself who acted the gloomypants.  I sat down on the nearest bench and allowed the lump in my throat to manifest itself into a discreet but satisfying cry.  What was I crying for?  The city?  My twenties?  The bygone dreams of my squandered youth?  In any case, I learned long ago that in New York one can openly cry in public without fear of judgment or even interruption. 

When I was a New Yorker, I frequently longed to be back in Boston with my family.  Now that I've gotten my wish, I adore seeing my loved ones, but I often miss my life in New York.  (I know what you're thinking, the Riesling always tastes sweeter on the other side of the vineyard.)  But for me, leaving New York was never a black or white issue, and it will most likely remain a classic shade of gray.  Cest la vie.

I ate a nice Thai dinner with my friend Emma that Friday evening while Hubby had soundcheck for the show.  Regrettably, it turns out the only thing Hubby had to eat for dinner that evening was one puny beef slider.  (He doesn't like to eat too much before a gig anyways, and he figured he'd just get something to eat afterward.)  WORST.  PLAN.  EVER!  We schlepped back to our hotel many hours and barfs over the side of our taxi drinks later.  I haven't seen my husband that intoxicated since the infamous Flying Crab Rangoon(s) incident of 2006.  Not pretty.  It was the opposite of pretty, in fact. (Think Heidi Montag post the plastic surgery debacle.)

It was a great weekend, though.  I love watching my husband play his saxophone.  I will forever remain his eternal groupie.  And it's always nice to see old friends, and to revisit old stomping grounds...

Life is wondrous, bittersweet and sometimes willfully gray.  Choices, especially the most important ones, can't always be black or white.  But I think I'm at peace with it.  At least I have these amazing choices to feel gray about.

One of the best things to come out of this trip was the realization that we needed to move to a new part of town and we needed to do it immediately.  The Fenway area doesn't feel like much of a neighborhood, and the college kids are slowly driving me out of my mind.  Not to mention, the two of us are constantly comparing Boston to New York, with the latter always winning out.  And frankly, that's getting kind of obnoxious.

I returned to Boston and decided if we were going to give this city a fighting chance, we needed to address our living situation.  We needed somewhere a bit more quiet and homey, with an office, in a building where we wouldn't feel compelled to shank our neighbors quite so often.  We've found it, I think, (I pray).  Ask me in a week and a half, after we've moved into our two-bedroom in Southie, and I'll be able tell you for certain.  xoxo

Comments

[Weinerdog]

What is this shank business?

[the odd broad]

I just think it's a funny word. I can't stop using it. I should probably limit my use of it...(much like I had to do with dingus and dingleberry)