Happy Anniversary to Me
I moved to New York 11 years ago today, so I'm having a moment right now. Please bear with me.
The day I moved to New York, I had two large suitcases, a backpack, and a structured messenger bag for my résumés that turned out to be the biggest piece of shit bag I've ever owned. I did not have a job to go to or an apartment to move into. I had $5,000 and my best friend's couch.
I packed through the night and almost missed my plane, so the goodbyes with my family at the airport terminal curb were brief — an unexpected blessing, as I'm horrible with both goodbyes and change.
On the plane, I wrote very, very, very, very bad poetry because I thought I was supposed to. I was 23. I don't particularly like poetry, and I'm clearly terrible at it. Here are some of the better (read: worse) excerpts from that plane ride, some bits of pathetic verse and random thoughts:
Freckles dotting
Light but heavy
Fingers spotting
Paints
***
Repressing emotions
Testing out lotions
My heart has stopped beating
But my body's in motion
***
Mikhail Baryshnikov's dentist
[This was the only doctor's name I had, an old schoolmate of my dad's.]
***
I'm feeling ornery
Ornate
Oral
12:20 arrival time I can't believe I'm doing this
I hate the change
the stress
the distance
I love my dream
my guff
No certainty
No comfort
No security
No communication
***
Now I have to go do all the things I've been saying I want to do. Oy vey. Can I do it?
***
They say go west
But I'm going east
I'm pretty depressed
The nature of the beast
***
turbulence
***
[thoughts on an unrequited crush I left behind and — thank god — eventually got over]
If I'm never going to get over someone, I at least want to make them feel bad from time to time — I want to feel that, on occasion, say every 11 years or so, I've made them think of what they missed.
***
Stacy was in law school in Brooklyn, living in a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights with her now-husband, Mark. She sent me a key and offered me her sofabed for my first 10 days until she had to hunker down undistracted and study for exams. I planned to get off the plane, take a taxi to her apartment, dump my stuff, and head into Manhattan so I could walk around, get my bearings and take the edge off.
When I got to her place, I couldn't open the door. Could not get the key to turn in the knob. After 15 minutes of trying, I sat on my luggage in the stairwell, forlorn, and thought I'd have to wait for her to get home from work several hours later. I couldn't lug around my incredibly heavy bags, I had no idea where I was and, it being 1998, I did not have a cell phone. I was emotional and exhausted and scared and overwhelmed. A neighbor finally walked by and asked if I needed help. I was convinced he'd steal the key and break in because this is New York after all, but I gave it to him. With one click, he opened the door, looked at me like I was a fish, put the key in my palm and went on his way.
I dragged my stuff into Stacy's empty apartment and, save for the rumble of the subway that ran directly underneath her building, took in the quiet. I still remember what I was wearing, this unfortunate ill-fitting shiny sweater that wasn't quite taupe. I sat on the couch, stared straight ahead, and actually said aloud, "What the fuck did I just do?" And instead of getting my bearings and taking the edge off by going for that long-intended walk, I cried in panic for five minutes and then fell asleep for five hours.
When she and Mark came home, they took one look at me, pulled me up and said, "We're going to the bar." They got me nice and tipsy, which is no difficult feat despite the fact I went to Michigan State, but this lightweight appreciated it just the same.
Stacy let me use her computer, and for the next 10 days, I furiously sent out résumés, made phone calls, panicked, went for walks and ate all of her Ben & Jerry's Blackberry Cobbler ice cream. I then moved with my stuff to Manhattan, into my friend Josh's apartment, where he let me house-sit for the next 10 days while he was in Israel. Josh — who will always and forever be referred to as Josh 1, much to the chagrin of my husband, Josh 3 (don't ask about Josh 2) — was my prom date, childhood neighbor and one of the best people I've ever known. While I was crashing at his place, I got my first temp job, and my mom flew out to cosign the apartment where I lived for the next year and a half.
All these people got me started. I came with no promises, but $5,000 and my friends' couches turned out to be more than enough.
I came to New York to work in magazines. Here are some of the things I've done since the night Stacy pulled my freaked-out self off her couch and got me drunk:
* I've worked at three magazines, and my first full-time job was as the assistant to the man who started New York magazine.
* I answered phones for a man named Stanley Licker.
* I got a lap dance from a bikini-wearing drag queen on my 24th birthday.
* I've traveled to, among other destinations, Denmark, Norway, England, New Zealand, Curaçao, Jamaica, Maine, Oregon, and the Louisville Slugger Museum.
* I walked the wrong way down the stairs inside the Statue of Liberty.
* I walked downtown and across the Manhattan Bridge on 9/11 while shocked men and women coated in dust walked uptown, away from the destruction.
* I wound up on June Allyson's speed-dial.
* I met the love of my life online.
* I got married.
* I willingly had cats.
* I kept my head down while I had an allergic reaction to medication on the subway, while other riders looked at me terrified, thinking I was tripping.
* I ice-skated in Central Park and bowled at midnight at Chelsea Piers.
* I saw Brian Dennehy play Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman on Broadway and cried for the next three days, and after seeing Tony Danza perform in The Iceman Cometh, I got him to autograph a rubber duckie I just so happened to have on me.
* I buried three grandparents and three pets.
* I saw the New York Philharmonic perform in Central Park on a perfect summer night.
* I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge on the Fourth of July and watched the fireworks reflected against the windows of the World Trade Center.
* I learned that one of the best feelings is standing in my parents' backyard in Michigan with my feet in the grass.
* I smoked from a hookah on Stacy's balcony while eating her home-baked pumpkin cookies.
* I've read some really brilliant books and I've read some really horrible books.
* I was in a cooking club, a book club, and found my membership folder from when I joined the Corey Hart fan club in 1986.
* I wanted a bunny.
* I let a guy I was dating (Josh 2) feel me up like a high-schooler while we were in a packed movie theater seeing Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace.
* I took mambo lessons.
When I came home from work last night — or, more specifically, at 4:35 this morning after being driven home in a car that reeked of smelt until the driver farted, and then it reeked of smelt and farts — I found the most recent issue of New York magazine on the kitchen counter. The theme of the issue is "My First New York": people's tales of moving to this great city that has given us even greater opportunities. On the cover are photos of people who came here and made it big, photos taken the years they arrived. And Jann Wenner is on the cover, a photo of him in 1977. And now I work for the guy who is on the cover of "My First New York," published by the magazine started by the man who gave me my first job here. And I feel it's all come full circle, so now, just like the day I moved here, I'm sitting on the couch crying, but not because I'm scared; I'm crying because I'm proud of myself and so grateful for how things have turned out. I'm aware this whole post sounds like I'm bragging, but maybe I am. I've accomplished a lot, building a life in a place where it's often difficult to do that, and I did it with the assistance, love and support of a lot of wonderful people, and with a force inside myself I never knew I had. I often forget about this, especially when I'm feeling unproductive, so having these moments is necessary and comforting.
It's not to say it hasn't been difficult — these last 11 years have been the most challenging, emotional, testing years, because that's life and growth and change — but it's been worth every second. Every penniless, insecure, angry, support-grouped second. I wouldn't do it any differently.
I sent Josh 3 an e-mail to that effect, and this is what he wrote back:
I am very proud of you too. With the risk of sounding rather ethnocentric, the old cliche "if you can make it here you can make it anywhere" does have a certain validity. Of course its relative (ie i would have no idea what to do in Iowa). But it does take a certain constitution to thrive here (and yes that means you). Even us natives can feel overwhelmed by it all. But those "I love New York" moments you get when walking past the Chrysler (ironic for you, isn't it) or entering Grand Central that very first time (when I think about it-I was probably three-even I get teary) make it all so worthwhile don't they? In a way, I'm kind of envious. Since I grew up here, I've never seen my city through such eyes. I can pinpoint times of wonder of seeing the city for the first time as I grew old enough to form memories. Just thinking of them makes me cry. But I never had that point of reference you have, coming from such a distant background. But then again, I have to admit, the thought of being from somewhere else makes by body spasm. Maybe that's what your wonder is all about.
You should be very proud of yourself.
Happy anniversary.
I'm so lucky.
The day I moved to New York, I had two large suitcases, a backpack, and a structured messenger bag for my résumés that turned out to be the biggest piece of shit bag I've ever owned. I did not have a job to go to or an apartment to move into. I had $5,000 and my best friend's couch.
I packed through the night and almost missed my plane, so the goodbyes with my family at the airport terminal curb were brief — an unexpected blessing, as I'm horrible with both goodbyes and change.
On the plane, I wrote very, very, very, very bad poetry because I thought I was supposed to. I was 23. I don't particularly like poetry, and I'm clearly terrible at it. Here are some of the better (read: worse) excerpts from that plane ride, some bits of pathetic verse and random thoughts:
Freckles dotting
Light but heavy
Fingers spotting
Paints
***
Repressing emotions
Testing out lotions
My heart has stopped beating
But my body's in motion
***
Mikhail Baryshnikov's dentist
[This was the only doctor's name I had, an old schoolmate of my dad's.]
***
I'm feeling ornery
Ornate
Oral
12:20 arrival time I can't believe I'm doing this
I hate the change
the stress
the distance
I love my dream
my guff
No certainty
No comfort
No security
No communication
***
Now I have to go do all the things I've been saying I want to do. Oy vey. Can I do it?
***
They say go west
But I'm going east
I'm pretty depressed
The nature of the beast
***
turbulence
***
[thoughts on an unrequited crush I left behind and — thank god — eventually got over]
If I'm never going to get over someone, I at least want to make them feel bad from time to time — I want to feel that, on occasion, say every 11 years or so, I've made them think of what they missed.
***
Stacy was in law school in Brooklyn, living in a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights with her now-husband, Mark. She sent me a key and offered me her sofabed for my first 10 days until she had to hunker down undistracted and study for exams. I planned to get off the plane, take a taxi to her apartment, dump my stuff, and head into Manhattan so I could walk around, get my bearings and take the edge off.
When I got to her place, I couldn't open the door. Could not get the key to turn in the knob. After 15 minutes of trying, I sat on my luggage in the stairwell, forlorn, and thought I'd have to wait for her to get home from work several hours later. I couldn't lug around my incredibly heavy bags, I had no idea where I was and, it being 1998, I did not have a cell phone. I was emotional and exhausted and scared and overwhelmed. A neighbor finally walked by and asked if I needed help. I was convinced he'd steal the key and break in because this is New York after all, but I gave it to him. With one click, he opened the door, looked at me like I was a fish, put the key in my palm and went on his way.
I dragged my stuff into Stacy's empty apartment and, save for the rumble of the subway that ran directly underneath her building, took in the quiet. I still remember what I was wearing, this unfortunate ill-fitting shiny sweater that wasn't quite taupe. I sat on the couch, stared straight ahead, and actually said aloud, "What the fuck did I just do?" And instead of getting my bearings and taking the edge off by going for that long-intended walk, I cried in panic for five minutes and then fell asleep for five hours.
When she and Mark came home, they took one look at me, pulled me up and said, "We're going to the bar." They got me nice and tipsy, which is no difficult feat despite the fact I went to Michigan State, but this lightweight appreciated it just the same.
Stacy let me use her computer, and for the next 10 days, I furiously sent out résumés, made phone calls, panicked, went for walks and ate all of her Ben & Jerry's Blackberry Cobbler ice cream. I then moved with my stuff to Manhattan, into my friend Josh's apartment, where he let me house-sit for the next 10 days while he was in Israel. Josh — who will always and forever be referred to as Josh 1, much to the chagrin of my husband, Josh 3 (don't ask about Josh 2) — was my prom date, childhood neighbor and one of the best people I've ever known. While I was crashing at his place, I got my first temp job, and my mom flew out to cosign the apartment where I lived for the next year and a half.
All these people got me started. I came with no promises, but $5,000 and my friends' couches turned out to be more than enough.
I came to New York to work in magazines. Here are some of the things I've done since the night Stacy pulled my freaked-out self off her couch and got me drunk:
* I've worked at three magazines, and my first full-time job was as the assistant to the man who started New York magazine.
* I answered phones for a man named Stanley Licker.
* I got a lap dance from a bikini-wearing drag queen on my 24th birthday.
* I've traveled to, among other destinations, Denmark, Norway, England, New Zealand, Curaçao, Jamaica, Maine, Oregon, and the Louisville Slugger Museum.
* I walked the wrong way down the stairs inside the Statue of Liberty.
* I walked downtown and across the Manhattan Bridge on 9/11 while shocked men and women coated in dust walked uptown, away from the destruction.
* I wound up on June Allyson's speed-dial.
* I met the love of my life online.
* I got married.
* I willingly had cats.
* I kept my head down while I had an allergic reaction to medication on the subway, while other riders looked at me terrified, thinking I was tripping.
* I ice-skated in Central Park and bowled at midnight at Chelsea Piers.
* I saw Brian Dennehy play Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman on Broadway and cried for the next three days, and after seeing Tony Danza perform in The Iceman Cometh, I got him to autograph a rubber duckie I just so happened to have on me.
* I buried three grandparents and three pets.
* I saw the New York Philharmonic perform in Central Park on a perfect summer night.
* I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge on the Fourth of July and watched the fireworks reflected against the windows of the World Trade Center.
* I learned that one of the best feelings is standing in my parents' backyard in Michigan with my feet in the grass.
* I smoked from a hookah on Stacy's balcony while eating her home-baked pumpkin cookies.
* I've read some really brilliant books and I've read some really horrible books.
* I was in a cooking club, a book club, and found my membership folder from when I joined the Corey Hart fan club in 1986.
* I wanted a bunny.
* I let a guy I was dating (Josh 2) feel me up like a high-schooler while we were in a packed movie theater seeing Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace.
* I took mambo lessons.
When I came home from work last night — or, more specifically, at 4:35 this morning after being driven home in a car that reeked of smelt until the driver farted, and then it reeked of smelt and farts — I found the most recent issue of New York magazine on the kitchen counter. The theme of the issue is "My First New York": people's tales of moving to this great city that has given us even greater opportunities. On the cover are photos of people who came here and made it big, photos taken the years they arrived. And Jann Wenner is on the cover, a photo of him in 1977. And now I work for the guy who is on the cover of "My First New York," published by the magazine started by the man who gave me my first job here. And I feel it's all come full circle, so now, just like the day I moved here, I'm sitting on the couch crying, but not because I'm scared; I'm crying because I'm proud of myself and so grateful for how things have turned out. I'm aware this whole post sounds like I'm bragging, but maybe I am. I've accomplished a lot, building a life in a place where it's often difficult to do that, and I did it with the assistance, love and support of a lot of wonderful people, and with a force inside myself I never knew I had. I often forget about this, especially when I'm feeling unproductive, so having these moments is necessary and comforting.
It's not to say it hasn't been difficult — these last 11 years have been the most challenging, emotional, testing years, because that's life and growth and change — but it's been worth every second. Every penniless, insecure, angry, support-grouped second. I wouldn't do it any differently.
I sent Josh 3 an e-mail to that effect, and this is what he wrote back:
I am very proud of you too. With the risk of sounding rather ethnocentric, the old cliche "if you can make it here you can make it anywhere" does have a certain validity. Of course its relative (ie i would have no idea what to do in Iowa). But it does take a certain constitution to thrive here (and yes that means you). Even us natives can feel overwhelmed by it all. But those "I love New York" moments you get when walking past the Chrysler (ironic for you, isn't it) or entering Grand Central that very first time (when I think about it-I was probably three-even I get teary) make it all so worthwhile don't they? In a way, I'm kind of envious. Since I grew up here, I've never seen my city through such eyes. I can pinpoint times of wonder of seeing the city for the first time as I grew old enough to form memories. Just thinking of them makes me cry. But I never had that point of reference you have, coming from such a distant background. But then again, I have to admit, the thought of being from somewhere else makes by body spasm. Maybe that's what your wonder is all about.
You should be very proud of yourself.
Happy anniversary.
I'm so lucky.
Labels: friends, New York, philosophical whatnots, pop culture
posted by Marla at 3:57 PM
5 Comments:
Congratulations on your first 11 years in the Big Apple. Time flies! I admire you for chasing your dreams. I have always loved NY too, but I listened to my lame, overprotective, Jewish Father when he said HE could never afford for me to live in NYC, so I stayed in Michigan. It's comfortable, it's familiar, it's home. But I always wonder...
By the way, I LOVE telling my people that my friend is an editor at US Magazine. They always seem so impressed.
Yo Marla: Cool, cool piece. Thanks for sharing your memories. I'm proud too... it's been a pleasure to keep track of your adventure and I'm proud to know you!
I'm sure you mistakenly forgot to give a shout-out to your sister Stephanie who drove, with your parents, from Michigan to New York in a really uncomfortable U-Haul for 13 hours (that I, not you, had to load) discussing the possible ways that the Seinfeld finale was going to end (so disappointing it was - didn't it air, like, the night we got there?) only to get to New York and have to schlep all of your boxes (don't think I haven't forgotten about the fact that you put EVERY SINGLE BOOK THAT YOU OWNED into one box) up a million flights of stairs into your studio apartment where I then had to sleep in a studio apartment with you and your parents, on the floor, in said non air-conditioned apartment to help you fulfill YOUR dream.
But we got to go to Ikea and that was fun.
And, by the way, that bikini-wearing drag queen at Lucky Chan's was one hot bitch.
Quick question - do you now have more than $5,000?
Bleh! I wrote a nice, long reply to all of you good people and it never posted! Bleh bleh bleh! I shall try again. From the bottom up, this time, for variety:
Anonymous: Quick answer: No.
Steph: I will never forget what was surely a totally unpleasant schlep in a U-Haul with Mom and Dad. I thought for brevity (ha) I'd just stick to the actual first throes of my move, not the settling-in part. If I had, I'd surely include both your moving mitzvah, as well as the fact that for the two weeks between moving into my apartment and getting my stuff, I had no music, and all I heard over and over again was the dance mix of "My Heart Will Go On" blasted by the closeted neighbors across the hall. I mean, who were they kidding? If you recall, while we were watching the "Seinfeld" finale, the first thing I unpacked was my music, and the first CD I listened to was Toad the Wet Sprocket. HOWEVER, you exaggerate a million times a day because I was on the second floor. Also, Ikea sucked. I remember my framed poseur-y Monet print was lying flat on the bottom of the back of the van and my dishes were clattering on top of it. Mom and Dad made me climb in the back to stop them from jiggling, but I told them I couldn't because I'd break the frame glass and there was nowhere to move it. They kept screaming for me to get in the back, I climbed over the seat, and sure enough the glass broke. It cost $150 to fix it. So pissed. I think there was a point when Dad actually threatened to pull the van over to the side of the highway and let me out, there was so much screaming. I heart regression. Worst experience ever. Also: You know the whole four-people-in-studio-apartment was neither my choice nor my idea, yes?
Warren and Amy: You know that you always have a home away from home in my home when you need your New York jones. Also: You both have blogs! And Warren, you have a baby! Where have I been?!? Happy!
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