My New York State of Mind

Visiting New York always promises to be an adventure. In addition to spending time with my closest friends, who are all, obviously, cooler than me, drinking myself into a happy oblivion, and taking advantage of the public transportation, I inevitably leave the tri-state area with some ridiculously dramatic story that somehow always involves a poor life decision on my part and an equally as destructive reaction from the unfortunate other party involved. I am not sure if I find myself in these situations because I get on the plane knowing that I am going to have a good time whether I like it or not or if it’s because drama actually follows me wherever I go. It’s like a disease. Either way, my New York jaunts always leave me with some pretty cool new cocktail party icebreakers.
Let me first address the Mecca of New York eligible, yet socially inept, Jewish bachelors that is Washington Heights. At first, when I was a freshman in college, coming from Michigan, that place seemed like a dreamland. Every boy I had ever known or was going to know was just roaming the streets, ready for my taking. I used to love going there just for the slight chance that I would find myself in a room surrounded by single Jewish boys. However, after having taken serious advantage of having many horny, estrogen-starved boys in such a small area (seriously, it was like they had never been around a vagina before), I kind of exhausted the selection. That may sound really slutty (good for me!) but, if one is going to play by the unwritten YU rules, once you have hooked up with one person from one particular clique you end up eliminating around 10 guys from the list of possible partners…they become off limits. Bros before hos rings truer than ever in the Heights (which is interesting given the rampant lack of any other, more important, social morals that exists there. Like fidelity and/or the need for financial independence for example). So, after having hooked up with my fair share of friends of a friend of a friend, going to the Heights became even more exciting…I never knew what the next visit would bring. A rematch? A new victim?
However, things changed drastically when I started dating (for lack of a better word) that infamous ex boyfriend of mine who, by now, you are all painfully familiar with. At the risk of exposing his identity (that’s almost funny), he too lived in Washington Heights during the duration of our relationship. Given that he was an extremely jealous boyfriend who couldn’t get over the fact that I had had a life before he came along, venturing into YU territory became less of a dream and more of a nightmare. We would go out for pizza and unavoidably run into a former flame of mine. This inexorably led to THE fight…the one where I argued that I had hooked up with so-and-so in 10th grade and that I can’t help it if every guy I had ever known was in his orgo lab.
With all of this in mind, Washington Heights kind of lost its flair. But, when he and I finally “ended things”, the Heights completely morphed from a happy place, in which I was able to feel like I was picking for French kisses, into my very own low budget horror movie. Now, every time I go there, I constantly have to look over my shoulder and be keenly aware of my surroundings out of fear that I will run into either him or, worse, someone who knows him or anyone else with whom I have shared bodily fluids. It is so unfun.
Yet, now that most of my friends (with the exception of those few perpetual students and those few married people who have not gotten the message) have graduated and/or moved out of the Heights, I no longer frequent that region of Manhattan. You would think, then, that all the drama would stop and that going to New York would just feel like visiting Cleveland, boring but lovable. But no. I will never be able to escape the cloud of commotion that has followed me throughout my life.
I STILL run into exes. On the street in the Village, in restaurants in Midtown, on the subway in the Upper West Side. New York city is just crawling with awkward situations waiting to happen and there is no avoiding it. Just the other day, for example, I ran into an older ex boyfriend of mine. He and I dated when I was 18. It was one of those camp romances where days function like years with all the emotions and drama of a real relationship crammed into a 30-day period. Needless to say, we ended things when life got real again; however, we never really lost that summer fling passion and ended up going for round two my freshman year of college. We didn’t officially date the second time around so we kind of became each other’s dirty little secret for a good 2 years. Looking back, it was dangerous and fun, but sort of destructive. He was the first guy who ever sunk his claws into me, the first guy to ever tap into my vulnerable side that I had worked so hard to conceal. He scared me.
There were many reasons why he and I were not right for each other, but the one that stands out in my mind, which has since reorganized itself, making room for even more intense relationships and big people worries, is that he always had this uncanny knack for making me feel stupid. I am by no means a dumb person. In fact, I like to consider myself at least somewhat intelligent, but he never saw it. He always managed to turn everything I said around and make it seem like I was either wrong or irrational. I vividly remember telling him that I was pre-med and that I intended on eventually going to medical school. I remember that he looked at me, giggled, and said, “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it. I guarantee that you will never go to med school”. Ever since then, every time a science class seemed beyond my comprehension and every time I couldn’t bring myself to study another hour for my MCAT, I have replayed that moment in my head. I would show him.
So you can imagine the look on his face when I ran into him in midtown and told him that I would indeed be attending med school this fall. After the look of pure shock drained from his obsessively groomed face, all he could come up with was “wow, that’s a big decision”, to which I promptly responded to with “yeah, I kind of made that decision a long time ago”. Suck it.
But, the funny part is that even though I was able to experience that gratifying moment, he still managed, within the literal 5 minutes that we spoke to each other on the street, to make me nervous. As soon as I saw him, I became wildly self-conscious. I became aware of every blackhead, every pound that I had put on since I last looked at him…from underneath him. I immediately started to shift my body, unable to stand in one place. My sister, who I was with at the time, told me that I rocked that awkwardly fake smile that I wear when I am either trying to impress someone I don’t really care about or when I am extremely uncomfortable. I looked like a Chinese girl with Downs.
This is what I get for coming to New York. Hi, nice to randomly see you ex boyfriend, I am wearing this schemata on my head because I am having a crazy bad hair day and am sweating profusely because I have just spent the past two hours limping around midtown because I have developed a blister on the bottom of my foot the size of Montana. I’ll never escape the drama. I will always see someone I don’t want to see and I will most likely be sweating or crying or screaming or laughing or limping or doing something wholly unattractive that will inevitably make me want to jump off the George Washington Bridge.
It’s the story of my life. I have already had my fair share of New York crazy and I am not even home yet. But, hey, at least I didn’t run into that OTHER ex boyfriend, because THAT would be quite the blog. Horrible for me, awesome for you. I guess there is always tomorrow.