Life in My Years

Most of you reading probably know, but still, for the purposes of this blog, I’d like to officially acknowledge in writing some recent developments in my life: I’ve quit my job, moved to Manhattan, and I’ve been living in Greenwich Village with my boyfriend for the past two and a half months. As Januarys go, it was an eventful one.

As if to balance things out a bit, February was the exact opposite. March decided to follow in February’s footsteps – just for good measure.  It would be an exaggeration to say I’ve done absolutely nothing since arriving in this iconic city of opportunity and smog, but only a slight one. There are many side-effects to being in a state of temporary suspension while also having just moved to a new city. One of them, I’ve discovered, is having to engage in the same conversation composed of the same awkward three-sentence exchange with concerned family members, curious friends, or polite new acquaintances.

Family, friend, or new acquaintance: So what are you doing now?

Me: Nothing much – [Pause] – I’m not really doing anything right now.

[Silence]

Family, friend, or new acquaintance: Oh [Pause].

I’ve had this conversation so many times by now, it’s beginning to spark nagging little twinges of what feel suspiciously like embarrassment.

I used to say I was job-hunting, but I’ve stopped saying this. I decided it was a lie to count any activity you engage in for a collective twenty-minutes a week as a major time preoccupation, unless it’s something like bare-fisted tiger wrestling.

I have no solid explanations for why I haven’t felt the urge to do anything in particular for two months. People tire of themselves, and I haven’t felt like myself for a long time now, so maybe I’m unconsciously taking a break from myself. Another concurrent possibility is that I’m in the process of taking a deep breath before making the plunge into the vast, opaque waters of my new-found freedom. This breath has taken so long to breathe, however, that I’ve apparently decided to stopped treading altogether. I’m floating on my back – face slowly reddening under a cloudy sun. And as I lay there, calmly unsettled, I churn through all the probable reasons why the unknown has become overwhelming in a way I hadn’t anticipated – and then I try to forget them all so I can just dive in without thinking about anything and everything so much so that life becomes paralyzing.

It’s April. The days and nights aren’t quite as bitter cold as when I first arrived in New York, although they are still by no means warm. I hope they will be soon. Meanwhile, patience, tempers, and checking accounts are wearing dangerously thin, and stagnation has become thoroughly exhausting on both mind and spirit. It’s tiring to climb out of holes, but I suppose more tiring in the long run to stay in them.

Fiddlesticks.