Who Do you Think You Are I Am
A New York Minute and a Mini Identity Crisis
Happy Sunday!
I'm writing to you from my New York hotel room.
Tomorrow I’ll be attending a conference. Until the ceremonial intern is sacrificed (I can only assume that’s how all corporate events start) I am alone in the city.
Look out Macaulay Culkin! A new kid is in town.
Since this morning I’ve been marching around Manhattan.
I bought some vintage shoes.
I spent time writing in the New York Public Library.
I was tempted by a haggler in Times Square.
I saw a musical on Broadway
I ate a slice of pizza.
I may or may not have watched someone die in the middle of the road while eating said pizza and waiting for the show to start…
All quintessential New York experiences.
I feel like the 8-year-old who drove herself to Target. She was found by police unharmed and with a frappuccino.
No one knows how she figured out how to drive.
Like her, I am currently eating an unsupervised cannoli in bed.
Every now and then I see my life from a birdseye view and think 8-year-old me would find it pretty cool, too.
I mean, not Target-level cool, but still.
How did I drive myself here?
People say travelling by yourself helps identify who you really are without the pretense of home.
On my brief work trip to Phoenix in July, I discovered I can be intensely shy.
I missed my cat, I missed my husband, and I missed my routines (not necessarily in that order, but not not necessarily in that order).
The whole city was quiet — like any desert in a heat wave — and the silence drummed up my anxiety.
I didn’t want to make decisions by myself.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
I didn’t wait to be an inconvenience.
My only evening alone, I walked around the block in blistering heat trying to find a spot for dinner, only to end up back at the hotel with a shitty sandwich and overall aura of embarrassment.
New York is completely different.
The overstimulation allows me to lose myself. I feel free in the anonymity, and my shyness has pivoted into shrewd observation.
I walk around like I own the place.
I eavesdrop and scoff at tourists who are so obviously tourists.
…Not that I think real New Yorkers would spend any time in Times Square or the public library, but what can I say, I’m a romantic and a hypocrite…
Women contain multitudes.
And, if I’m honest, I’m trying to figure out how many ‘tudes I have.
It’s unnerving how inconsistent I feel from place to place.
Am I that susceptible to my environment?
There’s an entire astrology practice dedicated to matching people’s birth charts with lines on a map. They say there are places we’re meant to be in — some for healing, others for inspiration, more for difficult times etc...
Here’s a look at my map:
According to this, the places I’ll feel most at home are in the middle of the ocean and/or Fiji.
I’ll let you know if and when I spend extended periods in either….
There are a few interesting tidbits, though.
In the last few years, I’ve felt super called to New Orleans. According to this map, it sits in the center of a line where, according to Astro.com “there is a good chance of coming closer to finding your true destiny.”
Spooky.
But hey! Lana Del Rey recently gave into the lesser-known feminine urge to abandon your life and elope with an alligator tour guide. Maybe I, too, crave becoming a swamp queen?
How would I know unless I go?
My time in NYC is part work trip, part therapy homework.
Last session, my therapist told me that I don’t know myself.
Not only is this a devastating blow for someone who runs a personal essay blog (lol), but it also signals a huge undertaking.
I’m supposed to reengage with stuff I liked as a kid.
I’m supposed to make choices based on what I want (and what I want, only).
I’m supposed to spend time alone.
I’m supposed to ask my friends, family, and (by extension) blog readers how they see me.
She says — without concrete evidence, I might add — that all of you have a wildly different perception of me than I do. Lest we forget the Jack Astors incident…
So I’m coming to you, hat and cannoli in hand, asking who do you think I am.
Because I’ve been living under the cozy cozy mental blanket of constant self-criticism and blame for so long that I don’t have a firm grasp on who that person is. Now I’m 30-less-one-month and am realizing that maybe my therapist is right.
Maybe the different environments, and the people-pleasing, and the anxiety have warped the way I understand myself.
As a reader, what have you learned about me? Will you let me borrow the eyes out of your sockets and take a good hard look at the person I am?
Is she shy? Is shy annoying? Does she fit in the NYC hustle? Does yearn for the swamps?
Only you can tell me because I have no idea!!!
In summation:
Maybe you over analyze? 😉 and in actuality you’re perfectly you. Engaged, adventurous, and delightful. Please don’t change.