Manhattan Me

This city was built on legends. Old folklore of urban myths have been spread through every small street and interwoven into each sky scraper as it was built, brick by brick. It's a part of the culture, and everyone has a tale to tell. I have my own legend and her name is Mary. She came here in the 1950s; when everyone else was fleeing to the suburbs she did the opposite and walked right into the arms of the City of Dreams.

In the City That Never Sleeps, the clock is always ticking. It just takes two seconds passing by and you miss your chance to cross the street before oncoming traffic hits. You leave the house one minute late and you could be standing on the subway platform waiting for the R train for an eternity. Arriving 5 minutes too soon to your dinner date in the Theater District and you end up bombareded by a stampede of tourists dashing to their seats for their third viewing of Wicked. Timing is everything here. And I have what you would call, impeccable (read: imperfect) timing.

Last Friday night, after dragging myself home from work after what could quite possibly be a strong contender for Worst Week in The World, I battled with an invitation to a surprise party. To go, or not to go? To go would mean I would actually have to brush my hair and put some makeup on for the first time in a week and stop wandering around like a character from The Addams Family. To not go would mean to give into yet another hot date with my turquoise couch and flat screen. This was requiring more brain power than I could possibly devote to anything more than breathing and blinking. Around 10pm, I decided to just suck it up and go to the party.

I called the hostess and told her I'd be there within half an hour, and she told me the birthday girl whom the surprise party was for would be arriving at 10:30. I'd probably miss the surprise, but that was fine by me. So I rode the subway to Harlem (that ride in itself is a whole different post) and trekked to the party. I glanced at the time as I was arriving to her apartment building--10:48 PM. Surely, by the time I arrived, the surprise would be over. I briefly considered calling and letting her know I was almost there, and not to shout SURPRISE at me. But, as I tend to over think and worry unneccessarily, I left it alone and continued on. You know how they always say, the one time you don't think to do ________, you should have? It never fails. As I was coming up on the door, I noticed it was a little too quiet for a party, but in New York, everything is different. I knocked on the door and stood there for about a minute waiting for someone to open it. My friend and hostess opened the door, and as if things were happening in slow motion, I took in the following: dark apartment, crowd of people with smiles slapped on their faces..oh, no...birthday cake..crap, please let this not be happening...birthday candles, awkward silence...how much more frantically can I shake my head "No" before they stop? and finally...SURPRISE! Shit. A few minutes earlier, or just 5 minutes later, and this never would have happened. It's all about timing.

I quickly scurried to a corner in the room, my friend closed the door and within 2 minutes, the real birthday girl was there. She hadn't suspected a thing. No, really, the surprise was a sucess.

You may ask why, if I was among friends, did they mistake me for the birthday girl. At any given party in New York City, you will find a random group of people, from all walks of life, who have never met each other. It is just how things are done here. We were all looking at each other for the first time. I, however, just happened to make a more grandeur entrance than them. Another thing, besides my so called impeccable timing, that I just have a knack for.

When I was growing up in Connecticut, if someone told you they were going to get a manicure/pedicure, you just knew that person would be in the nail salon all day. Stuck in a time vacuum where day turns to night before the polish on your pinky nail even dries. If you were the lucky girl relishing in this luxury, you knew you had to push all the day's plans aside. But like most things, New York is different.

I try to spend as little time as possible on the subway, but with winter fast approaching I have no choice but to throw down $27 to the MTA once a week and hop on. My favorite, and probably only good thing about the train is the fact that I get no cell service and for however many minutes, I can be completely alone (sometimes alone, sometimes lonely). Just me and the rest of the B train's morning commuters. Except the one time my phone rang, and I carried on a conversation in between two stations while people looked on in pure shock and envy. One passenger sauntered over to me, "My GOODNESS! WHAT service do you have?"

I went to an event the other night. Not just any event, but Tony Bennett's gala for the arts. Yes, the one and only. When I walked in, I couldn't help but think this was exactly the type of place designed to keep people like me out. Cipriani Wall Street. Red carpeted entry way. High ceilings, beautifully designed architecture. Ornate decorations. Money draped over every table, oozing out of every dish, glass and spoon. And there I was, wearing my $24.99 black lace cocktail dress. My mother told me to act like you belong and you will, so I did my best.

I took my mom out last weekend for a night on the town and I learned something very important. In quite literally, the center of all the swanky lounges, dimly lit wine and cigar bars, and sweaty clubs, there is a whole different world going on. A world where people from all over the country (maybe even the whole world, but I usually find them at the clubs and lounges) don their finest duds and walk blindly into the tourist trap that is Times Square and all it's attractions.