New Yawk Ciddy

New York City.
I love living in Los Angeles. My quickly turning white fingers and toes love the steadfast 70 degree weather in Los Angeles. But as I gave up my seat for a handicapped lady on the nyc subway (and watched a teen slip into it before the lady), pursed my lips as the wind slapped around the high rise buildings, and drank beers at a bachee ball bar/lounge in Broolyn, I couldn't help but sigh. New York. The hustle, bustle and standoffishness that I missed so much was surprisingly refreshing, and the biting cold the tough love I needed.

There are always going to be "me people"--those that most horrifically consider themselves above intuitive understandings of manners and courtesy. These include folks on airplanes who pack two suitcases in the overhead bin while her neighbors fight for the last small nook and cranny. Those that take up two spaces on the subway while an older woman stands shivering from fatigue. But somehow, it seems dare-I-say allowable in New York City.

I'm a down to earth person. I have helped others far more times than i have myself been helped. But here in New York City somehow the buzz of survival-of-the-fittest is itself artistic. Whether it is squeezing into a two-thousand-dollar-a-month closet space for an apartment, cramming tired feet in stilletoes, or starting a fight with the woman in line for taking too long to order her bagel, perhaps it is all just part of New York City folklore. We create our own culture based on what we think it is supposed to be, or the way we imagine it to be. The feedback loop that is snippy, fast-paced new yawk siddy badassness is created, recreated, and copied and pretty soon we are all part of it, and then we actually miss it.

Still, like ice skaters clad in identical blue boots in Bryant Park, we'll constantly slip, slide, giggle, curse, and glide gracefully with our own individual flavor, altogether creating an image of excitement and the unexpected, however harsh we may seem.