I get it New York; you want to by my boyfriend

I get it, New York; you want to be my boyfriend. 

When I first moved to New York, I really didn’t have the same dreams that most people do when they get here. I wasn’t pursuing a career in fashion (Ha ha. You should see what I’m wearing right now). I can’t dance, so we can just rule out Broadway… or even off-off Broadway. I can’t handle the amount of cologne that finance guys wear, so forget about a job on Wall Street (Do people still wear JOOP? And if so, why?). Conversely, I wasn’t scared to move to New York, either.  I didn’t really have any grand plans to avoid muggings or buy a Costco amount of pepper spray. I definitely watched Law and Order only to identify locations such as, “Hey, behind that body bag there is a great place with waffle fries.” But I say all of this to emphasize that I wasn’t crushing it but I wasn’t practicing my “SHOWTIME” performance for the subway, either.

*If you ride the trains here and you suddenly see a boom box, you’re about to see “SHOWTIME!”, which is just a performance of acrobatic stunts on moving train… no big deal (except that I can’t even walk on a moving train). Just once I would like to see a whole bunch of architect students from Pratt with their protractors in their plaid perform a “SHOWTIME!”. I imagine it would involve a lot of measurements and discussion before the performance about “how beautiful this pole is…let’s reflect”. But whatever. These are just my little dreams.

So, I say all of this to emphasize that every time I think about breaking up with New York, I stop to remember some of the wild and crazy things that have happened/ I get away with regularly:

The West Village Sample:

Picture it: Just a sweet (late twenties) girl walking down Christopher Street, window shopping at fancy places I’m not even dressed to walk into, much less shop at. As I walk down the street, a man with a PLATE (important detail) offers me a sample. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I took one. Now, this gentleman had a thick accent, so I heard something about salt, but that was about it. As soon as I put it into my mouth I wanted to project it into the street. “Noooooo!!! Issss’a SOAP! With salt from the Dead Sea. You so’a cute!!!”

Self, why you decided to eat a sample of something a stranger gave you that was not at the Food Court of a mall, I’ll never understand. But you did. And lucky for you it didn’t turn into a Law and Order episode where “Young Teacher Gets Drugged on The Mean Streets of The West Village and Vanishes”.  (Also, the West Village, as I previously hinted at is like, not dangerous. It’s posh and has soap from the Dead Sea. Check it out.)

Rats are people, too:

So, my friend Vincent and I have this weird little quirk about the rats. We don’t want to go anywhere near them, but we sort of feel like we’re living the New York Dream when we see them on the subway tracks. I mean, they’re the ultimate survivors (who would never eat soap from a stranger). When we spot them we feel sort of victorious and often make up interviews. “Where did you come from?! Do you have children?!! Tell us everything.”

This game only happens when we see them on the tracks. If I spot a rat running on the street right in front of me, I have been known to turn the other way and let the rat have the street. It’s totally hypocritical that I only question their ancestory.com information from afar, yet I won’t do a live interview…but there you have it.

Stop trying to make Irish happen; it’s not happening:

I have a terrible habit of trying to steal people’s accents when I hold a conversation with them. I recently met a group of Irish men and by the end of the night, it just sounded like I was trying to sell them a shillelagh stick for the bargain price of a pot’o gold! They were extremely gracious about it (since I wasn’t pulling it off and was a good sport about them asking all about Texas and guns and horses and The Alamo), but I don’t have an accent, and I’m just going to have to get right with that. (Also, I need to stop trying to make people be friends with each other in bars. Same night that I meet the Irish group I meet a bunch of Brits. “You’re from the UK?! They’re from the UK. Discuss!” And then, like the freak I am, I try and make friendships happen… because that’s TOTALLY why they came out for the evening. They wanted me to hook them up with other bros. 100 percent. Good job, self.

Besides rugby and the use of the word “bloke” several times, I can’t imagine that I did them any favors.) On the topic of accents, I just want to say that I really need to stop introducing myself in accents, because it just disappoints people when they realize that I’m not from England OR Jersey (the only two accents I can pull off reasonably well).

Oh, New York. You have managed to let me get away with such wonderful things over the past few years. I get it; you want to take things to a more serious level (and three years in New York time IS a New York minute for relationships). So, I’ll just say that yes, you can (FINALLY) be my boyfriend… just don’t be surprised when I try and hook you up with Jersey, because you’re both from the Tri-state Area! Discuss!