NYC

Ahhh… a day wrought with apple pie in the sky highs and fallen bread dough lows.

I had forgotten how truly good a bagel could be. On the surface, this could seem like a tragedy, forgetting the bliss of a perfect NY bagel. Upon careful consideration though, missing the food of a region can be a blessing. It’s better for my heart, my waistline, my potential for diabetes and cancers to be far far away from the land of amazing carbohydrates and perfect pizzas. Of course, for the next several days, I am doomed.

… and moments prior to leaving for Manhattan, during the ‘use the potty once more before we hit the road! You don’t want to have to go on the train!’ period, Abi struck up a case of diarrhea. My tiny hopes cracked. Was she really getting Braeden’s virus? Here comes the blessing… she only went maybe twice, and never complained of a sore tummy, or having to use the potty. I couldn’t believe it. Even Braeden only went once. It was nothing short of a miracle (on 34th St, right on up to Central Park).

The tension induced, however, had me feeling like a true New Yorker by the time our LIRR train hit Penn Station. My life was filled with so much shit, and I had an awful headache. Isn’t this how most city folks feel? Always? I considered for a time how perhaps I could fit into the Manhattan scene!

Then I looked around… saw the excruciating high heels pounding the bustling sidewalks, noted the designer bags tossed brilliantly over black wardrobe clad shoulders, looked in a Luis Vuitton store window, and in addition to noting the top pin-tucked seam of broad bowled leather pouch purses, I noted, also, my reflection: all terrain running sneakers under foot, suaded earthy vest buffering a North Face diaper bag/backpack across my shoulders, baby stroller just ahead of my hefty rugged frame. Yikes. Could I ever do that? Fit into the scene in NYC??

Then, by Central Park, I walked Braeden by one of the horses drawing a carriage around the park. “See baby? This is a HORSE! I don’t think you’ve seen one of these so close before... how pretty!”

A woman standing right next to me looked at the horse and said to a friend of hers, “oh, I like the way that horse is decorated! That’s pretty!” The horse was wearing a huge plume of turquoise feathers atop his head. His black leather straps were dotted with turquoise rhinestones. The strap padding around his girth and his rump was a bright and furry purple. Yes, the horse was decorated. I looked high. I looked low. I looked in the eyes of water fountain statues. I looked in the eyes of passersby. I could not find reality anywhere. What is real in a land where the beauty of a horse is in its ‘decoration’??? In Colorado, if a horse is decorated, he’s either been fancily branded, or awarded a medal of honor.

I understood at that moment that, though I’m pretty sure I can live anywhere for at least a short time, living in NYC would never be a good fit for me. I could do it. It just wouldn’t fit.

… and I think I’m okay with that.