everyday revolutions

today is my 100th day (my centendial?) in this fair city.  in honor of that i am posting the following reflections, taken from notes at the end of my first 90 days:

may 9th marks the end of my first 3 months in NYC.  i am struck by how swiftly time passed. 90 days is the end of the probationary period for new employment (fortunately i do not have such an arrangement).  in many romantic relationships (certainly most of mine) it is a significant landmark, a moment of plateau amid a twisty, exhilarating, or otherwise up-in-the-air roller-coaster ride of emotions.  in short, 90 days is a big deal, and my first 90 in the City is a big deal–and  bigger, in fact, than even my birthday, which took place two days prior.

this first quarter has been eventful:  a trip to the ole alma mater, a slew of out-of-towners (two parents, one brother, one brother’s brother from another mother, one radically awesome cousin, one former Fulbright bestie, one Chi town theorist by way of China/Brentwood/Western Massachussetts/Kentucky/Sweden, and one British geographer/sex worker organizer), visits with estranged friends, a crapload of touristy activities, countless papaya smoothies, and some amazing reads. (and these are only the things i’m at liberty to disclose!)

on the whole New York was a pretty awesome move, wracked with uncertainty, discomfort, anguish, lucky breaks, bizarre turns, and deep deep contentment.  my work  inspires me every single day.  my roommate is family–both my bedrock and warm, fuzzy blanket.  still, this City’s brutal. between the endless walking and the surprise torrential rains that are precisely timed to crash over your “minimalist” outfit at five in the morning when you’re in stilettos and have gotten off at the wrong subway stop, and the street meat that seduces you with their irresistible scent only to threaten vomit and explosive diarrhea  minutes later, and the multilingual catcalls and honkings, and the aroma of urine and dozens of unbathed bodies cramped into cells for days deprived of hygiene and human rights, and the sloping/sagging/sinking apartment and the fleas and the roaches and the rats, physical adaptation is a daily struggle.  (and i haven’t even mentioned winter-related grievances.)  materially, things are falling apart (the center ain’t holding).  even my beloved li’l typing machine is circling the drain.  in New York things move at a lightning-fast pace; taking care of things takes forever. and is expensive. knock-the-wind-out-of-you expensive.

needless to say, my life is a mess–a blessed beautiful nauseating mess.  i have learned to be grateful since moving here, to truly internalize it.  i’m not merely referring to the analytical, academic graditude, wherein we identify our privileges and recite them in poetic detail.   i’m talking about a gratitude you feel in your bones–deeper even, if the cliche would permit.  the kind where you are stripped bare of any sense of entitlement (thereby preventing you from feeling pissed off and “woe-is-me”-ish), stemming subsequent envy/bitterness towards those whose lives are slightly less complicated than yours.

so that while, yes, your apartment is collapsing (splintering seemingly board by board),  and yes, you are being bitten alive by mysterious critters, and you have fallen down entire flights of stairs (not once, not twice, but thrice –and stone cold sober, no less) and consequently permanently fucked up your right ankle, and you’ve been momentarily paralyzed by excruciating, immobilizing lower back pain (the kind that produces thoughts of suicide and incites many to begin lifelong painkiller addictions that lead to fatal overdoses), and when that pain miraculously subsided, it is replaced by equally intense shoulder pain, and yes, your face is breaking out (you’re in your mid-twenties for Pete’s sake!), and the sink burst and flooded, and yes, your favoritest pair of adorable gray low-heels that get you compliments from all of the cute boys broke in half in the same week that the entire sole of your favorite wedge heels came off–essentially you’ve worn out ALL of your shoes  (but not made a dent in the love handles)–and yes, the cat is possessed, and the apartment has nearly burnt down twice, and your friends live painfully far away (even the City dwellers), oh and you’re broke…you still feel at the end of the day (while you’re eating ramen for the eighth consecutive night, slapping at those irritated, mystery bites), that you do not “deserve” any better,  that you are thoroughly blessed, that you could not ask for more.

my first day in my new apartment i was famished and attempted to fry an egg only to have it explode all over the stove, the adjacent cabinet, the crevice between stove and cabinet, my shirt, my hands, my hair.  i’m not particularly superstitious but there was something sinister about seeing that black rotten yolk, sitting in its cloudy liquid, on my first day in my new home.  (it stank too.)  each day since then the jokes (on me) have become crueler, the climb more steep, the boulders that roll back down more massive.  even when things are calm the exhaustion is incredible.  each day survived is an accomplishment.

ergo

i feel accomplished.