Two of my best friends recently moved to New York and, despite my short-lived time there, they both asked me for advice before they moved.
One sent me a list of apartments she was interested in, and I quickly nixed a few that were near the Hudson, above dermatologist and chiropractor's offices.
"These will be closed late at night," I explained. "You'll be walking home from the subway at 1:30 a.m. in the dark - it's better to be closer in, above delis and bodegas that are open 24 hours."
Her mother thanked me for this advice.
I told them about how the lines at grocery stores work, and the best way to haul your laundry, and the beauty of a monthly MetroCard, until you lose it. I told them where they could find $12 manicures and introduced them to Ray's Pizza and the Strand. I made them lists, I told them about restaurants, I acted as a guide.
They asked for my advice, and I gave it to them. But so much has changed since I lived in the city. And, to be quite honest, their lives in the city could not be more different than the life I was living there.
They have one-bedroom apartments in the Upper West Side and on Washington Square Park. They have jobs at reputable companies, and their paychecks arrive on time, and in the full amount, every month. They are confident and self-possessed, and seem to be settled.
I lived in multiple boroughs, with multiple roommates. I squatted in friend's apartments to ride out the end of their leases. I found a wonderful girl and evil cat to live with on Craigslist, in a fifth-floor walk-up that still showed the outlines of crime scene tape on the metal front door. I lived on an air mattress above a hamburger shop with two of my best friends from college, and when they would cut onions downstairs in the afternoons our eyes would burn. We snuck onto our rooftop, we created our own views.
For a while I refused to think about my time in New York, embarrassed over leaving so quickly. Then, I created a million little reasons why I left – it was cold, I was poor, my job was shit, I didn’t like it as much as I thought I would.
The truth is, though, that I loved New York. I still do.
I loved the subway, even though it was always late, always crowded, always smelled a little like urine, a little bit rotten. I loved that there were just as many people on the street at 1 p.m. as there were at 1 a.m. I loved the parks, I loved the bookstores, I loved the bodegas. I loved it.
I was 23 and worrying about the things that didn’t matter, and not worrying about the things that did.
I wore whatever I want, wherever I wanted. I mixed patterns, wore full-length dresses with denim vests, circled the waterlines of my eyes with black kohl eyeliner. I wore last night’s clothes to the bodega to get an egg and cheese on a roll, I paid in handfuls of change.
Now, I notice when I'm the only one not wearing a Barbour jacket at the oyster roast. I'm not saying I want to dress like everyone else - I don't - but I notice when I stand out. I don't always welcome it these days.
What did I worry about? Anything trivial.
Swiping my card wrong and holding up the line on the subway would make me burn with shame. I worried about ordering the right drink, going to the right bars. I worried about not being able to give people the right directions when they asked. I worried no one would ask me for directions, that no one would believe that I wasn’t a tourist. I worried about looking like I had no idea what I was doing, even though I had no idea what I was doing. At 23, does anyone?
What should I have worried about? My job.
The work was interesting, but I was an assistant to one of the most mercurial women I’ve ever known. I would write product copy one day and spend the next taking her shoes to a particular cobbler near Grand Central. I was taken to meetings at SoHo House, told about friendships with celebrities and people-about-town. I beta-tested websites and bought groceries.
I was blamed for things big and small. Forgetting a receipt at the dry cleaners was cause for rage. My desk was the boss’s kitchen table, and I was asked to buy my own laptop. To this day, one of the listed “benefits” of working at my old company is that the boss makes Rice Krispies Treats on Valentine’s Day.
Was I looking for another job, though? No. And when shit finally hit the fan and I quit, I had no idea what to do next – no plan, not even a semblance of one. I had about three weeks left until I had to pay rent again, and equal desires to stay in New York and to leave.
Those weeks are a blur, and if I spent them furiously searching for a job then I don’t remember that. I do remember waking up in a cold sweat and calling my mom. I remember her telling me she had already bought me a one-way ticket home, and we would figure out the next step together. I remember subleasing my room, packing my things back into my two giant suitcases, and heading home.
I remember feeling deeply, deeply sad – but also relieved. Like I gave up, but was justified in doing so.
Looking back, I see so clearly how worried I was over things that didn’t matter. Now, I own up to it when I don’t know what I’m doing. I ask for help, call in reinforcements. I get my accountant friend – the same one that just moved to NYC – to check my taxes. I ask my dad about benefits. If I screw something up, I no longer feel like everyone's going to find out I'm a sham. Everything stopped being embarrassing. I wish I would have known that, back then.
Instead, I moved. And I loved living in Raleigh – I loved my jobs, I loved my friends, I loved living near my family. But I’ve realized I have this thing where I always compare my life, as it is, to what I think it could be if I were somewhere else.
I visit my friends in New York and think, “Would I be happier if I had stayed here?” I look at my best friend in California, always hiking and skiing and going on adventures and I think, “Would things be better for me if I lived there?” Do I want to stay in Charlotte? Should I give New York another try? Is California what I've been missing? What do I do next?
I’m always comparing my life to the life of someone else, somewhere else.
How do I know if I should stay, or if I should keep searching? If I go somewhere new, how do I know if I should stay? How do I find home, wherever I am now?