That makes no sense. And I’m okay with that.
My month anniversary in the second best city in the world was spent eating chocolates in a hotel on the Upper East Side, and then spending the remainder of the day hungover in bed. I played the New York version of Pretty Woman, or Sex and the City’s Carrie that Thursday night– I ventured out to the Meatpacking district by myself (who can say no to an open bar and free entry, honestly?) and met a British guy at the bar, who lives in Dubai and is droolworthy. He bought me a hydrangea and breakfast at 4:00 a.m. (a healthy balance of class and fun) and then we went back to his swanktastic hotel on the Upper East Side. Now, before you get your knickers in a bunch, we literally just slept, which isn’t quite as SATC as one would’ve hoped, and in the early morning when he rushed off to catch a flight back to Boston and then to London, I slept the day away, ate chocolates in bed, and took the world’s longest and hottest shower.
And, then, I found my way to the Lexington and 59th train stop and boarded the subway back to Brooklyn (on the local train which, for anyone who knows what that is like hungover, is a nightmare). Prior to hopping on the train, I did make a brief detour in an UES puppy kennel where people were quite literally about to begin a bidding war over a little beagle while “Baby Got Back” played in the background. Weird.
Somewhere in between my lusting over the British bloke, and wishing I had the funds to shop at the Bloomingdales on Lexington, I got a phone call from an HR representative from a well-known media company, offering me a job in their loft space in SoHo. I wanted to jump up and down on my bed whilst screaming, but the $14 cocktails I had accumulated the night before didn’t allow me the physical freedom to indulge in celebration.
Later that evening, and for the remainder of the weekend, I was very reflective on my past (and first) month in New York City. I spent three weeks sick- either with the stomach flu, or with a toothache that gave way to a root canal, or a cold/flu; I had been to a job interview a day (sometimes two a day), and I had already turned down a few jobs. I moved into an apartment in Brooklyn with an amazing view of Manhattan, and now I had a full-time job in an office that works with well-known figures in the music industry.
I wondered, and continue to wonder, how I got so lucky. I recognize that hard work pays off, and I have been working hard for quite some time now; my mom says that I have the Midas touch and I don’t know how much of that I believe. I think above anything, I had a dream and a goal and made sure that there were no other options but to accomplish that dream. I sold my car, emptied out my apartment, and bought a one-way flight to New York City. I didn’t give myself an option to “fail” or come close to it because I don’t have the luxury of coming back home– my little brother is in my old bedroom and my lease is up in my studio apartment. New York quickly became the only plan, and while I believe that I am blessed, I also know that the big man upstairs has only matched the efforts that I have put in, which is quite literally all that I had to give.
All in all, I’m very pleased with how things have been going and I wouldn’t trade the decision of moving here for anything in the world. But, to people who do wish to relocate to a big (or just plain new) city, I offer them this: make sure that it is something that you want to do, so much so that you feel that your soul is dying if you are not in that place or doing what you love, because once you set your heart, your mind, and your actions toward something, you can’t go wrong.