There are moments where living in New York City is a real pain in the ass. Moments like trying to get your kid, your diaper bag, your purse, your grocery bag, your stroller and your evening work load into a mini-elevator with several other moms, all trying to do the same thing.
There are moments when New York is incredibly uplifting and you feel like you’re a part of something very, very special. That happens occasionally during the Grand Central Holiday Light show, which I tend to watch from a very secret corner of Grand Central, far away from the rampaging hoards.
And, there are moments where New York City is downright scary. Like today, when the emergency loud speakers in our offices burped out the words, “nothing to be alarmed about, just a teensy little incident on the 9th floor, we’ve shut down all the elevators as a precaution, no need to freak out but you’re all going to die.”
Okay. I am paraphrasing. But really? Just a little.
I work in a building that would be downright cinematic if it were blown up or something. And so, today, I ran down 23 flights of stairs in stocking feet.
Arch and I have been toying with the idea of moving out of the city. Why pay such exorbitant taxes? Why pay over $1100 a square foot for real-estate? It’s not like we actually use the city anymore…and I could use a little extra space for all this crap that is underfoot. Also? places in other cities may not be as likely to implode.
It makes me sad to think of leaving the city. I fell in love with New York before I fell in love with my husband. But seriously, today was a gas leak and I am still nursing my big toe. I stubbed it on the 17th floor landing.
edited to note: the irony of me complaining about Texas in one post, and New York City in the next is not lost on me. What can I say? I am fickle.