iris independent

Tonight, the city pauses for its first snowfall of the year.

Six inches are expected and, for me, that means it is the perfect night to stay in. Though I will say that I’m astonished at the temps back home and how uncomfortably low they are, people in New York are taken aback whenever I complain about being cold: “But, but… aren’t you from Minnesota?”

True, but I have been reveling in the balmy weather. This is one adaptation that has come easssssily.

Not all changes have been welcomed and I’m still acclimating to much. However.

I’ve been loving public transportation and all the easiness it brings to my life.

The music scene is - unsurprisingly - wondrous. I haven’t actually made it to any concerts yet, as I’m still in the search of a concert buddy, but there are armies of indie music appreciators who fervently share the love.

I’m used to working at public schools that don’t have a dime to spare. I’m used to appreciating the small tokens of thanks: being served coffee during Teacher Appreciation Week, a pen with the school’s name printed on it. You get the idea. Working at a school that has a crazy amount of money is something I could get used to. My Christmas gift this year? A Visa card with $250 dollars on it. AND - perhaps more impressively - each staff member was gifted a book that had been carefully selected for him or her. Hardcover, which equals special.

Lenny’s will deliver hot coffee right to my door. Enough said.

So far, the intensity of the city is satiating. People. Everywhere. All the time. They’re all working themselves to the bone and expect you to be doing the same. They’re all up for anything. They’re all uber-competitive. I’m just waiting for the moment when loving this becomes loathing this.

Finally, I never want to do laundry again. The Colombian man who runs the laundry next door has a real appreciation for my clothing. He adores each article and wants to take good care of it. I drop it off dirty, pick it up clean and folded, and am only 10 dollars lesser.

Speaking of, it’s time to pick up my laundry, order some Lenny’s, and wait for the snow.

I didn’t need to wear a hat and mittens until last weekend.

Tomorrow? The forecast calls for 53 degrees.

Heaaaaavennnn for someone as suddenly exposed to the elements as I.

However.

I’m so looking forward to being home in Minnie, where the probability of a White Christmas is a dependable 76-90%.

There’s no place like home.

I compose blog posts in my head
all
the
time.

They just haven’t made it to print… yet.

Okay, so I lied. There are no pandas here.

Boy Watch! just didn’t have the same ring to it.

So, remember the Yankees boy? The one I liked after our Yankees game date… but then decided that he called too much?

Well, the story never really ended with him. Until last Friday night.

I declare this “relationship” o-v-e-r.

We’ve been playing this silly little game where one of us initiates communication, the other one follows up within a short time frame and we go on a date. Then… nothing. We’re both so over it for 2 or 3 weeks. Then it starts up again.

It was two-sided. I’d do it one time, he’d do it the next.

The gist is that we don’t really like each other. However.

I will admit to a lil’ bump and grind action. The potential of more is what kept this crazy wheel turning.

Serious: The best part? It’s been SO NICE to realize that I can be a normal adult and date people in a normal way. Meaning that I’m usually a chronic long-termer. With the exception of 3 or 4 months, until last February, I’d spent the last 9 years in a long-term relationship. With two different people, granted, but “dating” has been associated with a prereq of “hot and heavy” “must see you now” feelings.

So refreshing to NOT have to feel that way and to have an occasional male presence in my life.

Until last Friday. As I was saying…

He spent the night for the first time.

Waking up next to him? Haaaaated it.

So, it’s 7:45 am. I make a pact with myself that if he isn’t out by 8, I’ll text the roomie to give her the warning … and then I’ll start doing annoying things to force him to leave.

Whyyyyyy are you still here???? is what I keep asking myself, as I stare at the clock and curse my decision-making skills. Sure, we did leave the bar at 4 am. Sure, we have only been actually sleeping for a couple of hours. But, still. This is no place for you to get your beauty rest, my friend. Up and out with you!

So, I put a plan into action to get him out of my apartment. Stat. One that I think could be replicated, if you’re interested.

1. First, work the room temperature.

It was ungodly hot in my bedroom because, though it’s been  50-60 degrees consistently in New York, my perpetually-open window was closed. A decision made by him earlier in the night. Ironic, no?

I just let the window remain closed and as the sun was rising, so was the stifling heat in my bedroom. It’s uncomfortable, man friend, isn’t it?

2. One pillow on the bed. And it’s for me.

I may or may not have offered him a decorative pillow to use. Hey! The multiple other REAL pillows were on the floor right next to you! You totally could have taken one! No one was stopping you!

3. Pillow-defense

When man-friend attempts to ALSO use the pillow I’m using in an attempt to be cuddly, “accidently” do a partial pillow-fold. Oh! Did that disturb you? Sorry.

4. The “Oh, I’m Just So Busy”

To accomplish my goal in the ambitious timeframe I’d set, I had to up the annoying factor at the last minute. At 7:55, I propped myself up by the elbows and starting playing with my cell phone.

Volume on.

Beep. Click. Beep.

When he opened his eyes to ask the inevitable, “What are you doing?” I replied,

“Answering e-mails.”

“So early?”

“Yep.”

The result? He made some random small talk, then got up to leave.

Successsss!

My conclusion? I really, really don’t like him and really, really don’t want to do any part of this again.

Ov-a.

I can hear people leaving messages on her answering machine.

(I know. Who still uses an answering machine?)

So, this story is going to make me sound like I have a drinking problem, but I promise that I don’t.

A friend from college texted a couple of weekends ago, wondering if I’d like to meet up with him and a few friends way up on East 93rd street. It was already nearing 10, but who can resist a college reunion? Not this girl.

So, the pajamas that had promised me a quiet Friday night were cast off in favor of my newest pair of skinny jeans as I hurriedly put my make-up back on and fast-walked down the stairs to catch a cab.

This venue hearkened back to the townie bars of nights spent in my small college town: a scattering of round, wooden tables, inexpensive (relatively so, at least) drinks, and a friendly bartender who pours ‘em far too strong for anyone’s good.

Love it.

It was the Friday before a long weekend. I already had a raging party in my mind at the thought of three whole days without school. This mental state is never a good one going into a night of drinking.

College friend insisted on a round of shots in honor of the “good old days” … apparently, that one shot was all I needed. I truly didn’t have much more to drink, but before I knew it?

I was alone with a random guy squinting at a jukebox, carefully choosing songs together with the scrutiny of a couple choosing items for our wedding registry.

(He was a compromiser, that one.)

And… the next thing I know, it’s morning. I’m in bed. By myself.

Um, what? I have had just one other blackout experience. And I completely blame that on college. It had made total sense for my friend to help me  “pregame” by bringing vodka in a to-go coffee mug to my on-campus job as the college switchboard girl.

I had to search frantically for clues. I mean, this was not cool. I am NOT in college anymore. I’m an adult of 28 - far too old to be having these experiences. It’s also a big, unpredictable freakin’ city, for the love.

I had my jukebox lifepartner’s phone number in my cell, but decided against it. I’m probably overreacting, I told myself.

Finally, while digging in my purse for the millionth time, I found the cab receipt.

Okay,

I sighed.

A cab. I took a cab home. That’s good news.

Looking closer, the receipt gave my confirmation that - not only had I cabbed it home - but I was more than likely alone. For what kind of tip did I leave the driver? First, understand this:

In NYC, you have a choice of three buttons /tips on a touchscreen when you pay with a credit card:

10%

15%

20%.

Somehow? I managed to manuever my way out of all of the above to leave the definitely-alone and definitely-not-sober tip of 93 cents.

I may have snubbed the cab driver, but I made it home safely.

Sometimes one needs to relearn a few of the lessons from early 20s. That, I’ve decided, might be what the late twenties are for.

But to a lesser degree. And met with more embarrassment.

There’s No Service on the Downtown Side

Student: “Do you know what would be great?”

Me: “What?”

Student: “If I had twin boys someday and named one Michael and the other one Jackson.”

I’ve never in my life met a group of people who adore Michael Jackson more than my 5th and 6th graders collectively do. And that’s coming from a true MJ-appreciator.

I’m sitting on the couch in my apartment, wrapped in a plush blanket and watching the Twins. I’m such a fair-weather fan; I only watch when they’re on the brink of something exciting.

But, the joy of it is all part of another weekend in New York. Weekends are very important here. Not for rest and relaxation, but for rejuvenation through activity that isn’t related to school or lesson plans or Brooklyn.

I don’t have to powerwalk through the dingy subways, sitting too close to people and quickly becoming desensitized and oblivious to the other lives happening around me. I don’t have to try so hard to keep myself on a schedule in order to get some sleep at night.

I still run on caffeine, but drink Skim Vanilla Lattes instead of alternating between home-brewed black coffee and Diet Cokes to supplement the lunch of oatmeal I’m bound to steal from my school because I forgot my own lunch again. I get to meet new people - something that is truly easy and natural here - and see new places. My runs through Central Park still radiate a teensy bit of glamour.

I’m experiencing New York as though it isn’t my own.  There’s still room for experimentation in my new routine and in what and who I want to be in this new setting.

The beautiful thing, though, is that the weekends offer the time to contemplate all the above. In the exploration, there is peace.