While reflecting on the different stages of love recently, I realized that I haven't successfully made it past the second stage of love, and that most of my relationships with men have ended within less than three years. This time frame seems to be prevalent in the other commitments I’ve made in my life as well – my first college major (1 ½ years), my second college major (2 ½ years), the longest job I ever held (3 ½ years). In fact, beyond my familial ties and friendships, there seems to be only one commitment I’ve been able to keep for the long haul – my tenure in New York City. This summer marked my six year anniversary in the city that never sleeps, and I’ve taken some time to reflect on some examples of why it may be time I asked for a little space.
Everyone who’s ever been to New York City knows that it truly is the concrete jungle. Not only do the buildings reach high into the sky but they are also horizontally stacked – one of the first things I noticed when I moved here from Chicago was that you couldn’t slip a piece of notebook paper between most of the buildings on these city blocks. Manhattan is a relatively small island, yet it hosts thousands of businesses and millions of people, and it didn’t get that way without efficiently using every square inch of its surface area. This means that whether you’re walking down the street, riding the subway , or seated at a restaurant two inches from the table next to you, you are always sharing your space. Here are some examples of how ridiculous it can be.
Monday night power yoga class. Thanks to Jen I’ve recently discovered the health benefits of yoga. At first she taught me the sun salutations and poses in the comfort of her sprawling Brooklyn apartment. Once we both felt I was ready for a real class, she introduced me to the New York Health and Raquet Club’s Monday night power yoga class. To jump from doing sun salutations in Jen’s living room to sharing a room with 30 strangers was a bit of a shock to the system. This particular class has been growing exponentially in popularity. Every time we go it seems as if the class membership has multiplied, probably because it’s given at a convenient time and because it’s the quintessential New York class. Last week the instructor skipped the meditation and went straight to the push ups –it’s as if this is the easy-to-swallow-pill format of big city exercising. Within the first five minutes everyone is sweating so profusely that you’d think the class was conducted on the equator. It can get quite dangerous, considering you are only inches from the person next to you, and one false move could mean you take down 15 others like a pile of sweat-slicked dominoes. Just last week the girl next to me slipped right off her mat and into the wall in front of us. Thankfully I was in the zone and didn’t laugh, although the crash of her body into the wall was a tad distracting.
Communal livin’. Because rents are so high in Manhattan, most people are left with no choice but to live with a roommate. I got very lucky and met Aaron through Roommate Finders years ago, when the only apartment Mike and I could afford was a three-bedroom apartment on Amsterdam Avenue above a restaurant that was, judging by our occasional visitors from the rodentia-world, home to some harmless city mice. Before we realized this, however, we screened dozens of applicants for the spare bedroom. Their tales of real estate woe were discouraging to say the least. One candidate told us that he applied for an opening in a three bedroom apartment in Chinatown. Upon screening the place he discovered what the ad failed to mention -- that one roommate’s girlfriend, her brother, and a lesbian couple were already living there, in addition to a steady stream of visiting relatives. He also met a woman who was asking $1,000 a month for a room in an apartment that she was running as a bed and breakfast. He was asked not to have guests because sometimes she would board families of four and things could get a bit tight. Another potential roommate he encountered had constructed a cardboard wall covered in cloth as a partition between bedrooms. One of the roommates had a girlfriend that was a frequent nocturnal visitor. (Not very likely that the poor bastard on the other side of the wall would be getting much sleep when the couple was feeling frisky.) We didn’t end up selecting this candidate, but I hope he found something a little more promising than that which he described to us.
The George Forman Barbeque. Not long ago Jen and several of her co-workers were invited to a barbeque at a colleague’s home. They all jumped on the A-train and took it deep into Queens, assuming that a spacious backyard and Weber grill piled with dozens of burgers awaited them. Must to their surprise they arrived at a tiny apartment with no clear access to the “backyard” they had been promised by the host. Instead they had to squeeze through his kitchen window and shimmy onto a small patch of concrete patio, where they stood around sans lawn chairs and were handed burgers one at a time as he cooked them on his George Forman grill. He also doled out rations of condiments in single serve McDonald’s ketchup packets, and quickly ran out of beer.
The cemetery just outside of Coney Island. I recently read that years ago for public health reasons the city of New York no longer permitted cemeteries in southern Manhattan, therefore moving the final resting place of our city’s departed to the outer boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn. A few weeks ago I took some visitors to Coney Island for the day. The F-train is elevated in this part of Brooklyn, and from the windows of the train you can see one of the most unusual cemeteries I’ve ever laid eyes on. The tombstones are stacked inches apart, a visually shocking reminder that even in death, New Yorkers have to share their space. I don't plan to die here, but if I do, I ask that my ashes are spread somewhere that isn't quite so populated. I haven't found an appropriate place yet, and hopefully I won't need to.
