I find myself hating New York somewhat less often, or less virulently, not sure which. The coping strategy I hit on, I think, is to have allowed my life to get smaller and smaller. I don’t even try to go to museums anymore, nor do I berate myself for failing to organize hikes or picnics or going to book readings. On Saturdays and Sundays, I content myself with running in the park, cleaning my apartment, or chasing down an errand or two, even the ones that send me to Target. What keeps me from quaking in front of the empty expanse of time is (Saturday) that I must pick up my Ronnybrook Farm yogurt from the farmers’ market before they run out of plain flavor like they did today and (Sunday) yoga class at 10:30, which I try to precede with a run. When friends from out of town visit, and they ask what I like to do, they seem surprised that there is very little on the list. Earlier in the fall, the list included sitting in the park with the paper; now that it’s winter, cooking brunches (or cleaning up after people who generously share their brunches with me) may join the list. The upside is that I much less often take to my bed, with nothing but Dykes to Watch Out For to comfort me.
I was in the 14th Street 1/2/3 station this morning, holding three bags, one of which included a muffin rapidly bleeding berry juice, another holding two pristine white boxes I had just purchased for a pretty penny from the Container Store, which I was trying to protect from the berry juice, the third of which contained dirty underwear and the sweater a woman had dumped red wine all over last night at dinner, and I was in everybody’s way, and I somehow ended up holding the dirty underpants in my hand, outside the bag, and I was embarrassed and tears sprang to my eyes, and I thought again, I hate this city, and I vowed again never to leave Park Slope on weekends.
It is very strange, this state of affairs. For many years I have had nothing but bewilderment and more than a bit of impatience for people who lack boundless energy for adventures, social engagements, ambitious plans. My appetite both for being with others and for plotting out complicated endeavors was never satiated; not that I always got such high marks in the following-through department (well, I think the problem really lay in the plotting-out; I tend to be very committed once the plans have been laid), but my appetite was there, and I could make life various degrees of unpleasant for the people, like a one-time girlfriend, who I felt didn’t adequately nurture my ability to carry out these complicated endeavors. I relished the scribbles and check marks all over my planner and only bitterly crossed out an evaporated plan (well, that part’s still the case).
Now, not a few times, I have found myself at home on weekend nights. I am sometimes invited to parties, but unless I am quite good friends with the host, I seldom go. When the kids upstairs and the kids downstairs are hosting a track meet in the their apartments and their parents are having movie night and talking loudly on the phone, I feel distracted and faintly homicidal. When I am surrounded by quiet, my contentment is thorough-going.
How did I get this way? The easy answer is New York, environmentally exhausting, constantly overstimulating, etc. Another answer is a recently-born gulping, grasping sense of professional ambition and impatience that squeezes out the mental energy needed for advanced social planning. Another, sadder, is that often when I would go to these sorts of activities I once I loved, in the New York context, I just didn't have as much fun. Another, perhaps the best explanation, is that with this approach, I am permitted to laze about the house with those I really love.
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