Castaway

Walking around in New York City, it would be easy for one to forget they were on an island. But not this particular trip. Despite the fact there are over 5 million people living, working, and visiting the island of Manhattan on any given day, I still managed to feel as if I was all alone. Maybe that is because for the first time in a long while, this trip was all business… no pleasure. None of the usual suspects were in town, my relationship was non-existent, and everyone else had nine to fives. I’ve never been one to depend on the company of others to have myself a good time, but it’s always fun to explore a new city with a special someone.

Seeing the city from the eyes of a singleton was definitely an enlightening experience. Sure, I took my meetings and met all my professional obligations, but no amount of success seemed to make this sense of emptiness go away. I kept thinking that when my work schedule kicked into full throttle that things would not hurt as much, and there would be this reawakening of my old self. But the reality of the matter was colder than the concrete the city was built on. There in the multicultural Mecca that is Manhattan, I felt lost. I felt forgotten.

There’s nothing like having your world turned upside down in a city you don’t really know. One day you’re in absolute bliss, and the next… well, it’s you, your cat, and your suitcases sitting on the steps wondering where it all went wrong. Talking to friends from a thousand miles away serves as much purpose as talking to Wilson volleyball. You certainly can’t go running to mommy and daddy’s house, because they are a two hour plane ride away. And all shoe shopping and retail therapy in the world not only leaves you with an empty soul, it leaves you with an empty wallet. At the end of the day… you really are the little old lady that lived in a shoe.

Finding a good apartment in NYC is about as easy as finding the perfect boyfriend. All the good ones are taken, and the rest have some serious underlying issues. Sure, one may have a beautiful view overlooking the park… but it’s also a six story walk up. The other may have only had one owner-- a cute little 87 year old lady, but did they also mention the little old lady happened to own about 30 not so little cats?? Finally, the last one may be walking distance to your work or a mere subway stop or two from the city… but you’ve owned closets with more space than this baby. And despite what they say… Size does matter.

Men are seemingly no different. Some have serious vanity issues that make life more of a hassle than it’s really worth. They may be pretty from the outside looking in, but they require a ridiculous amount of work and aside from “the view” there isn’t much pay off. Then there are the previously owned guys. And I do mean “owned.” These are usually the guys that got crapped on by their ex gf’s so much, so that they themselves become the one doing the crapping in their next relationship. It’s a natural defense mechanism. And while their new girlfriends may not necessarily deserve it, they usually end up paying for the damage the last tenant left behind, not to mention cleaning up the stains that just won’t go away. And then there’s the kind that just never really tries to measure up to the standards. Maybe they’re tired of the way girls didn’t appreciate them in the past, or maybe they are just tired of trying. Regardless, these never really reach their true potential, and while they may be convenient… the new girl never gets back the investment she puts into it.

Sometimes we rely so much on others to define who we are, that we forget who we are on our own. Maybe we spend so much time trying to please everyone else that we forget the things we like, that we enjoy. Simple things like wearing our sweatpants to the diner on Sunday mornings, after a late night out drinking with friends. Or pulling our hair back in a pony tail, not because we want to look like school girls, but because sometimes having long stripper hair is soooo overrated. Or maybe spending a Saturday afternoon doing nothing but hanging out in the park watching the little leaguers play “Kill the Man with the Ball.” I like eating buffalo chicken wraps at 11 am, if they served beer that early… I’d probably have one of those too. I like watching CSI marathons, even when I already know who-dun-it. And as much as I love the company of a significant other, sometimes I enjoy an afternoon to myself, or a night out with friends.

This trip to NYC reminded me about my wants, my needs, my hopes, and my dreams. It was about finding myself again, and not the doormat I had allowed myself to become to so many people. It made me sad to see the pet cemetery version of myself I had become, just to make others happy. Not to say that there hadn’t been fun times, and great memories… but maybe that was all they would ever be. And I would just have to accept that, and continue on with my own life. And that life starts with a new apartment.

I want a place with a view, a place filled with color, and character. I want a place that is drenched with light, so that even as the New York weather turns from hot and sultry, to downright frigid, I can still see the sun when I greet the day. But most importantly, I want a place to call my own, because when you have worked for it all by yourself... it makes coming home after a long day that much sweeter.

Finding a new life is more than picking out rugs, finding new doctors, and befriending a new hairstylist. It’s about writing the next chapter in your life. Sure the last one may not have ended the way I imagined, but life in itself is unpredictable. People will come, people will go.. leaving a lot of guesswork in uncovering people’s true motives to be a part of our lives. In a city of people trying to all get ahead and make a name for themselves, all you can do is stay true to yourself, and not become one of the masses that doesn’t open doors for others, or help someone struggling to pick up their belongings they dropped in the street..or doesn’t take a chance on someone just “because” they like the familiarity of something that didn’t work the first ten times around.

So maybe I was all alone on a cement island, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have good people back home that care about me and want me to succeed. My family will always be there for me, and leave a light on in case I catch the late flight home. My friends will always be there to throw me a life preserver when life’s waters get too rough, and I need rescuing. And maybe one day, someone special will send me a message in a bottle.. just to tell me that everything will be ok and I haven’t been forgotten. After all, in a city as big as Manhattan, I think we’re all just trying not to be lonely.