I’ve never cheated. Actually, I take that back. I may have glanced at someone’s Scantron one time in high school and kinda sorta occasionally look up two-letter words before making a move on Words With Friends. But otherwise, I’m an honest gal. Still, this whole Leaving-New-York thing has me feeling the way I’d imagine cheaters do: guilty, but blushing with excitement.
For pretty much the past 12 years, New York City has been the one constant in my life — there for me at any hour of the night or day to keep me busy, entertained, fed, dressed and most of all, company. A friend bails on my Wednesday night plans? How ’bout a two-for-one double-header at the AMC Lincoln Square with a Kid’s Combo for dinner? Worked late on a Thursday? Try a 9p.m. massage in Midtown followed by a dance party at The Jane! Saturday mornings? Those are for Inner Warrior class at Equinox, and taking over a bench at Jefferson Market Garden (when the weather permits) to read all the magazines I can’t keep up with. Oh hey, what about Monday eve? Probably a glass of Sangiovese at my local wine bar downstairs, where everybody (OK, maybe not everybody — but the bartenders!) know my name. Ask my friends and they’ll tell you: I’m always doing something. While it may look (and, yes sometimes feel) like I’m alone in my pursuits, really, I’m doin’ it (and doin’ it well) with NYC.
When I cheated for the first time.
With Italy. (I mean, how does one not? The pesto! The sunflowers! The David!)
Upon returning from 18 days eating, praying and loving in just a smidgen of the country, I left a changed, cheatin’ woman.
Now, those who know me know I love to travel and no matter where I return from, I ache to go back immediately and talk incessantly about it for days on end. (Why I won’t be a good cheater: I’ll shout this shit from the rooftops!) But I usually settle back into my admittedly lush life in NYC until the next time. Perhaps during all my previous trips, I just “looked,” maybe “touched” a little bit, but didn’t go all the way.
Well, not with Italy. Upon reluctantly returning, for the first time in my life, I felt maybe my city ain’t the be-all anymore. That maybe, while it’ll always be my home, I’m ready for a real change. To see what else is out there for more than my 15 vacation days a year allow.
And so this opportunity couldn’t have come at a better time. (This coming from the same girl who’s been pissy pretty much 24/7 about not going LAST January as planned. But hey, if I went then, I might not have gone to Italy or been around for some very important, albeit somber, life events that happened in 2012.)
And so it is.
It was quite apropos then, when flipping through a gazillion channels of nothing the other night, I paused on an episode of Sex and the City. (Please forgive me, as cliche as the references may be, this may happen a lot in my posts.) But it wasn’t just any episode. It was the one in which Aleksandr Petrovsky says to Carrie, “Now is the time for Paris.” He also said, “I’m finished with New York,” which is a bit melodramatic even for me. But still, I knew what he meant. And while Carrie had a look of horror on her face when he said he was “finished” with New York, she sorta knew it, too. And off she went…for a little bit.
So although it feels a little wrong to trade my city for another (and with a Cheshire grin, no less), a girl’s gotta play the field if she wants to find The One, right? It’s only temporary and I promise not to hurt any feelings. Plus, let’s be honest. New York City is such a womanizer. It may feel like mine, but I’m pretty sure there are 8 million people who will gladly push me outta the way and tell me otherwise. Love it or leave it. For now, I’ll take both, thankyouverymuch.