I ? New York

I've been having lots of random incidents lately that are making me question my decision to live in this fair city.

Witness...

So last night, there I was, walking hurriedly through Times Square -- well, I was trying to walk hurriedly, but the tourists had other ideas, so let's just say, I was doing my best to make tracks through Times Square -- looking forward to meeting a friend that I hadn't seen in months, and trying to beat the apocalyptic storm that the weather people were predicting, when it happened:

I got Carrie Bradshawed by a city bus.  One that didn't even have my picture on the side of it.  And instead of the catchy theme music, all I had was honking horns and screeching brakes.

There I was, standing on the corner, waiting for the light, when I saw a little kid in a stroller enjoying an ice pop.  So I leaned down and cooed, "Looks like you're enjoying that ice pop!  I'd like one of those on a day like today," and before I could straighten up - SPLAT.

It was orange.
It was chunky.
It was cold, so it couldn't be vomit, could it?
And it was all over me.

Now, I know I have a flair for the dramatic and I have been known to exaggerate, so I'll just state the facts and let you decide:

It was on my bare arms.
It was on my shirt sleeves.
It was on my back.
It was on my butt.
It was up and down both legs.
It was on my shoes.
It was on my glasses.
It was on my face, people.

I don't know if I should be proud or disgusted with myself that instead of canceling my plans and immediately rushing home to take a Silkwood shower, I just kept walking to the restaurant at a normal pace, trying to push through the crowds, who were looking at me as if I was the grossest thing in Times Square that night -- trust me, I still wasn't.  "What's the matter people, you've never seen a woman covered in vomit before?  I bet you have, and at least it's not mine."

Anyway, I get to the restaurant and push past the hostess, who doesn't blink an eye, to try to clean myself up in some way, but aside from just cleaning my skin and wetting down my arms, it's a fruitless exercise, so I emerge from the bathroom.

Again, you'd think a person, covered in what is probably another human's vomit, would feel embarrassed and run home to flee, or at least think, "Well, perhaps the other diners don't want to sit among me and my vomit...", or even, maybe *I* don't want to sit stewing in vomit for any longer than I have to.

But not me.  I go over to the waitstaff and I'm like, "Look, look what happened!"  And when my friend Kim arrived, I said, "Don't touch me!"  But we still sat down for dinner.  Come to think of it, we got a table pretty quick -- a table on the side by ourselves.  Consider that a NYC dining tip from me to you - look like a crazy person covered in vomit and you'll get a table quickly, a nice quiet one far from the other patrons.  And I have to give Kim credit for being a good sport and being willing to sit down and enjoy her meal opposite me - now there's a friend.

When I got home and could see in a full length mirror the extent of the grossness, my first question to myself was, "What is wrong with you?  You weren't even embarrassed to be marching around in public like this?"  And you know what, I really wasn't.  It was just all in a NYC minute, which made me think, "Is this what living in NYC does to you?"

And then I laughed thinking of how this woman was trying to push around me on the steps to the subway and how, when she apologized meekly and said, "I'm just trying to get to the subway," I turned around and said, "We're ALL just trying to get to the subway," she must have been very afraid at the sight of me.   You'd think that a person covered in vomit would keep to herself.  Yeah, not so much.

Oprah says (c'mon, did you really think that I could get through a post without quoting Oprah?) the universe speaks to us all the time -- first in whispers (clearly, I have whisper deafness), then with a brick upside the head (okay, check), then the brick wall falls down.

Was getting Carrie Bradshawed by a city bus, and not even being splattered by dirty rain water, but bodily fluids, my brick wall falling down?

I have thought often over the past well, maybe two, years about not being entirely happy here, two years of debating and hand-wringing and sleepless nights.  But I usually quickly follow that thought with others like, "But who really is happy?  And what's happy anyway?" And even more along the lines of, "You can make yourself happy.  Happy is a state of mind.  Try not to be so negative."  Even Yoda weighed in, "Do or do not, there is no try."

The problem is, as a native New Yorker, actually born here in the city and raised on Long Island -- except for college years and two pretty unhappy years spent in Boston where I loved my work but hated everything else about my life so much so that I actually had a page a day calendar that I numbered backward from the day that I was leaving the city, I couldn't wait to get out --  New York has always been the center of my universe and it's hard to see a path out and away from it.

With millions of people trying to fight their way here, why would I want to get out?  I mean, I made it here -- I have a good job, an apartment in a coveted neighborhood, friends, family -- so, why would I want to try to make it anywhere else?  Isn't achieving here in the city that does its best to break you, the end-all, be-all?

And it's not like the line is, "If you can be happy there, you can be happy anywhere."   So what I struggle with the most is, "Well, maybe I wouldn't be happy anywhere."  Maybe I'd go through the hassle of uprooting my life and starting over, and I'd be just as miserable.  Maybe I wouldn't sleep in a new city either.  And moving sucks.  I'd have to find a new hairdresser, and a new laundromat, one who wouldn't kick me out when they saw a Ziploc full of vomit clothes, and a new fruit guy who would bless me every day on the walk to work.

So I don't know what the answer is.  I don't know what the road holds, but at least, last night, covered in a part of this city and one or more people who live in it, I finally allowed myself to entertain the question.

But until I figure it out, I will be wearing my helmet, hefty bags over my clothes, and sensible shoes, and staying alert for signs from the universe.

I can't afford to miss any more of them.