ATC in NYC

Inclement Weather Is Front Page News | Like most other cities, New York is prone to predicting massive life-shattering amounts of snow for the next day and then the next day comes and absolutely nothing happens. So then the following day when snow actually does fall it is the equivalent of the King of Pop being elected president of Tiger Woods’ extra-marital affairs in terms of news coverage. A.K.A. roving news reporters will go to Coney Island and do a live remote for hours upon end without a single piece of newsworthy business to discuss except the fact that, oh hey, it looks like there’s frozen rain falling from the sky.

Traveling To and From This City Is a Breeze | That is… unless you’re attempting to fly in the midst of the aforementioned blizzard-like conditions. In which case I pity your soul. But if you’re not, I defy you to show me how getting in and out of this city is anything but a piece of cake. I had the pleasure of taking an impromptu working trip to Boston thanks to this show wherein I purchased a train ticket one day and found myself coasting along the Cape the next, arriving at my destination in the time it would normally take me to do my laundry on a Saturday. It was so quick. And so peaceful. And I didn’t even have to check my bags. I heart train trips.

Nicholas Sparks Movies Suck | Okay, so maybe this is more of a well-known fact, but I actually kind of liked The Notebook. Regardless of that admission, this really cool friend of mine talked me into seeing the new one with the girl from Mamma Mia and Mean Girls and that one guy from Step Up and… Yeah. It was really bad. And not really bad in the sense that, “Oh, they could have done better.” But really bad in the sense that nothing could have saved a story this bizarre and unlikeable… not even Meryl Streep… or free puppies at the door. In fact, it was so bad that we had to cleanse ourselves of its illogical stench by buying another exorbitantly priced movie ticket (read $17.50) on something that didn’t suck so bad. It was worth it.

You Always Have Friends In New York | A lot of people think that moving here means you have to wade through a sea of unknown faces until you find some wayward soul to call your friend. I have found the opposite to be true. There are indeed a lot of people here, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that the majority of them are complete strangers. (Well, actually, the majority of them are… but that’s beside the point.) I count myself very lucky that I have more pals around this city, in my office, around the corner, up the street, etc. than I would if I still lived elsewhere. New York is a hotbed of social opportunity. You just have to embrace it as such.

I woke up today and felt like death. My head was throbbing. I was covered in sweat. And when I tried to talk I sounded like Barry White after eating a hearty meal of sandpaper.  Work was not an option as I literally couldn’t will myself out of bed, but when I came to in the early afternoon and started wading through my e-mails, I started to get angry at myself.

What is it about being sick that bothers me so much?

I’ve been like this ever since elementary school. I know what you’re thinking… “What kind of self-respecting nine-year-old wouldn’t have jumped at the opportunity to eat popsicles and watch The Price Is Right all day?”  I had a tendency to get so caught up in thinking about how much information I would be missing and how much work I would have to do to get caught up that it almost wasn’t worth taking the day for myself.

I’m still like this.  Except instead of popsicles it’s hot tea and honey. And instead of The Price is Right it’s anything but The Price Is Right because Drew Carey cannot hold a candle to Bob Barker.

While much of my anti-sickness preoccupation is still centered upon agonizing over how much I’ll have to hustle to get back on top of e-mails and work-related items, I think it has  just as much to do with giving off the impression that I’m not perfect. (Shhhhh… don’t tell anyone.)

Seriously though, I’ve always been so dead-set on pleasing other people and proving to them that I am 100% capable of doing anything and everything passed my way that I forget to take care of myself in the process. Which is really dumb when you think about it. Because when I don’t take care of myself I know for a fact that it almost always leads to getting sicker. And that’s Bad News Bears on a whole new level.

I need to get better at this whole taking care of myself thing. Because, at this point, nobody else is doing it for me!

Nothing like a little R&R to put things into perspective. I spent the better part of my Christmas break adrift on the high seas with my madre and padre. It was just the stint I needed to come back and face the ridiculous New York cold with renewed energy.

The cruise itself was pretty fun. I’ve never been on one before and I liken it to summer camp for adults. You’re holed up with a bunch of people you will never see again for the rest of your life but you resolve to become best friends for seven days if only to make it through the mirage of organized games with some semblance of sanity. Next time I go, I’ll probably bring an entourage (or a good book… I caught up on TV movies and season 4 of “How I Met Your Mother” this time around), but the white sandy beaches and Caribbean air were just the ticket to relaxation. Which I needed. Like wo.

Now that I’m back in the city, I have to decide which one of my one trillion New Year’s resolutions I’m going to keep. I usually don’t make any, but this year I thought there’s so much I want to do that there’s no harm in at least saying I will do them and and if I don’t follow through no one will be the wiser.

One of them is to blog more. (I’m well on my way!)

Another is to use the one-year gym membership I spent a pretty penny on last summer and have neglected ever since. They sent me an e-mail this morning saying that my first six months with them I only got 6 out of a possible 24 new member medals. Wah Wah. As if I needed a reminder of my laziness. Or of my failed bid at this year’s Winter Olympics. It will get better though… as soon as it’s warm enough to walk to the gym every morning. Soooooo… April?

I also want to grocery shop instead of eating out all the time, learn the entire Adobe creative suite, take more pictures, go to church more, resurrect my other blog, go out more with new friends in this wonderful city, keep up more with old friends via phone and snail mail, get back into literature and floss daily.

Sound doable?

I was complaining about how late I had been leaving the office this week on the phone to my mom when she said something that really struck me: “Sounds like your honeymoon period with New York is over.”

As per usual, she was correct.

It just never occurred to me that parts of living up here would be un-fun. I mean, it’s New York. Glamorous. Sophisticated. Always something to do. Too bad “glamorous” can mean chaining yourself to the laundromat every other Saturday morning because that is the only feasible window you will ever have two uninterrupted hours to cleanse your lights and darks. To that end, “sophisticated” can mean ignoring the belligerent rants of the homeless man on the subway. And “always something to do” translates directly to “never leaving your office… ever.”

In light of this realization, I made a concerted effort this weekend to remind myself why I picked this city and why it is still the bomb diggity.

On Friday evening, I hung out in a trashy Penn Station pub with some of my favorite Belmont faces waiting for some out-of-town friends to arrive. (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, playing host in this city keeps you on your toes by making you an eternal advocate of all its eclectic glory.) After their bus arrived, we moseyed on down to the only place to be found on the Lower East Side before making a few really bad, diabetic coma-spawning decisions around 2am.

Saturday meant sleeping in until it was time to try my hand at lottery tickets with a favorite former intern. Didn’t win. But that’s okay when you live here and can try any day you want! The rain didn’t keep me and the out-of-towners from patronizing the greatest art museum this side of the Atlantic (which is made all the more sweet when you can get your little entry button for a mere one dollar bill). After that, it was another lottery ticket attempt with another Belmont favorite which also came up short but happened to be across the street from an equally solid Broadway offering which I didn’t mind seeing for the fourth time (even if it was standing room only). Dinner with the visitors and scoffing at $15 cover charges in favor of downtown chicness capped the evening.

And now it’s Sunday. The sun is out, my tummy is full with brunch and I’m looking at another day of absolutely nothing to do but enjoy this town.

The honeymoon may be over, but this relationship is just getting started.

I think I figured out why New Yorkers are so much skinnier than the rest of the country. It’s not because we walk everywhere or eat “greener” than everyone else (though those reasons do figure into the equation somewhere); rather, it’s because no one ever eats a darn thing up here.

When I first started my Big Boy Job, I would quietly laugh to myself as my coworkers chained themselves to their desks and refused to eat lunch or (on a rare occasion) allowed themselves a quick 10 minutes to grab an exorbitantly priced sandwich. But I have lived the life of someone who fears coming back to an insurmountable inbox of e-mails. I watched the remainders of my sanity flicker. And, in short, I was afraid.

Case in point, today for “lunch” I had a cup of coffee and a chocolate chip cookie, stolen in a covert 5-mintue break from the computer. At 3:30 pm.

It extends even further than just the inability to escape the clutches of Microsoft Outlook. In corporate America, I have discovered that shunning food is often the proper way to say, “I am a professional,” right up there with using words like “Best,” or “Regards,” at the end of your e-mails. Take a catered board meeting for example: if there is a heaping tray of delectable treats with which you would otherwise be shoving your face if you were at home on your couch watching nine straight hours of Bravo TV, you must refrain from doing so because you are in the company of your working peers. And busy and important people never show that they love food. Nay, they scoff at baskets of mini muffins provided for working breakfasts.

Will these trends ever reverse themselves? I wonder this in sincere Culinary Carrie Bradshaw fashion. If they never do, I hereby deem this The City That Never Eats.