I knew my entire life that I was going to live in New York City. It wasn't a dream or a goal that I talked about...in fact, it wasn't really a dream or a goal. It was just what seemed perfectly normal. Kids whose parents were from the west coast; kids whose families were west coast born-and-bred--they all stayed in Los Angeles or maybe went to San Francisco. Kids like me just went to the city. Simple as that.
So it seems so unfair that I am the one spending endless weeks in this terrible swamp of a city called Washington--the one that I never wanted to come back to in the first place.
I walk around where there are ghosts on every corner--the Whole Foods that I never bought food in; the corner I was standing where my mother told me my grandfather died--places and spaces that hurt so profoundly I never wanted to see them again. Everyone here looks the same, and acts the same, and dresses the same. The couples kiss on dark street corners, and they make the same kiss; do the same dance. I feel like I want to crawl out of my skin here--that was why I left--the clothes, the shoes...I can't stand the crushing sameness. It hasn't changed. Or maybe I haven't.
And my life goes on in the city I love...without me.
Yes, I made a choice--a calculated one. Maybe my calculations were off. And I resent every last person who asks me if I've moved; asks me if I'm liking Washington. I want them to die when they ask it; I want them to melt into the floor. I haven't moved. I live in New York.
I had no idea how angry I would be about all of this. About being away from New York for any extended period of time as a metaphor for all the other things that are missing in my life.
I want to be in my routine and surrounded by my things and my dogs, and I want to hear all the noises and smell all the terrible city smells. I want to be with my friends, and go to all the parties and events that I go to in summers. I want to meet people for drinks in the evening, and have my life back.
I just want to go home. Please, God, let me go home.
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