A Good Story

Here’s something I like [and dislike] about the city: nobody pays much attention to anybody else. This is a good thing if you’re dissolving into tears on the subway, but it’s not such a good thing if you’re trying to talk to someone [anyone] at Ikea, Time Warner, or Con Edison.

I wanted to keep it upbeat on the blog. I had planned on telling you a good story about my initial transition from Maine to NYC [complete with a photo map of the food I ate along the way]. In retrospect, I suppose if it had all gone off without a hitch, I wouldn’t have much of a story.

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It’s a story that involves an unearthed wall of peeling paint, a pail full of water under a disconnected kitchen sink, and a broken boiler. It involves a refrigerator that sounds like it wishes it were stationed on the starting line at the Daytona 500.

It involves a six-hour failed attempt to get wireless Internet, an eight-hour excursion to buy furniture [to be delivered a week late], and a two-minute voicemail not twenty-four hours later about a discontinued bed [that may or may not arrive by October].

It’s a story stamped with a reality check on privilege. It’s a story dog-eared open to the chapter entitled Letting Control Go. It’s a story about change and process and growing up and things I find unbelievably hard.

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It’s a story with a domino effect of dashed expectations for an introduction. It’s a story prefaced with second guesses. It’s a story stained with watery splotches. It’s a story looking for someone lonely that likes to read. It’s a story that comes from the center of a very saggy blow-up twin mattress in a beautiful part of NYC.

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It’s a story to run through over omelets with your best friend, in the early morning when everything feels infinitely brighter.

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It’s a story to take a break from – in order to sit on a stoop in the sun, to browse an infamous chocolate shop, to stock the pantry, to scout out a new fishmonger, and to put stuff on toast.

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By the end of the day, you might also agree that it’s a story best swallowed with a slice of lasagna bigger than your head.

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While I’m being forthcoming, it’s also a story that I’m not really ready to tell. I’m about as “held together” as the two pipes connected by what looks suspiciously like dental floss in my teeny tiny bathroom. Still, someday I know I’ll look back on this weekend with a laugh. I know I’ll be able to make it a good story then.


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