New York. Born there. Bred there. Never leaving not ever ever. Now before you say, “Why isn’t that narrow minded and ethnocentric.” don’t get me wrong…its not like I never tried to leave. I did. I tried it.
Twice.
The first time was when I went down to college in the south. Yes, for some reason, the hot school for New Yorkers that year was in North Carolina so of course, being as die hard as I was, I had to go where everyone else wanted to go. Never mind that it was nearly impossible to get into (when a bunch of insanely smart, insanely rich and insanely tutored 16 year olds decide a place is hot…well, you better believe it is hard to get into). But I did it. I worked it. I sweated it. And with a little help from my Harvard and Princeton educated $500 an hour SAT tutor, I got it. And so it was bye bye NY, hello NC!
Right. So here I was at the perfect work hard party hard school and instead of blissfully drinking warm beer through orientation, I was mourning the loss of my neighbourhood cigar bar. And what on earth are umbros? And do boys really play lacrosse? For a 17 year old with an encyclopaedic knowledge of port wines and nary a piece of denim in her wardrobe, I know you will believe me when I share that I lasted about three days in a dorm room before having my first official meltdown. By the end of sophomore year, I had obtained my drivers license (quite young actually for a city girl) and nabbed my very own gold emblazoned parking spot at the airport which I used for weekend commutes back to New York. Four years later with enough mileage to last me through my 20’s and a rather impressive degree matted and framed in my carry on, I made my way back home.
The next time I left NYC was a few years later when I met the love of my life. Surely I could leave New York for the man of my dreams, right? Sure I could! And so I made the very grand gesture of leaving New York for love. With a farewell pop of pink champagne at my dream job in midtown I made my way west for a ring. With my career down the toilet and lacking such essentials as hiking boots and fleece sweaters, I know you will believe me when I share that I lasted about three days in a cherry wood panelled apartment before having my first initial official meltdown. 6 months later with a proper diamond welded onto my finger I made my way back home.
How many people can possibly understand the relief and comfort I felt going from a 2500 sq ft apartment with 360 degree views of mountains to a 700 sq foot parquet floored apartment with views of gray and grime that rented for twice the price. It was perfect. And with the addition of an antique Aubusson rug and countless Tiffany knick knacks scored off my wedding registry, I was finally home. Never leaving not ever ever, right?
Right. So lets paint this picture a bit more clearly, shall we? I had no career but I was finally at my goal weight (yes!) and had two gorgeous kiddies and a pretty darn smart and handsome husband. And I was home forever. I had just found my dream apartment, winding staircase and all and was having dreams of floating down them with Edith Wharton like grandeur. One kid into posh preschool and the other properly ensconced in music, gym and other weird “I don’t know why this is meant to be awesome” classes. Things were going according to plan.