and this-sister-friend-actress-writer-agent-nomad-princess has been put to task. Give the people more... I've been told. And make it funnier than finding trailers for the movie Eat Pray Love.
Fair enough. If inquiring minds want to know, there's certainly more to be said, especially now that I'm back in New York full time. And if I can't find funny things to comment on and write about then what's the point of blogging in the first place I suppose?
I am going on a date tonight.
Over on the East Side with a photographer manfriend who I see from time to time who loves football, his motorcycle and dancing like a doofus. It struck me as I was exiting the subway at 81st and Central Park West a few minutes ago how happy I am that this time when I trek across the park to see him on the Upper East Side, I'll only have a small purse or clutch with me. The last time I met him in his neck of the woods it was when I was very much in my nomadic naugs mode and I was schlepping a gym bag, an overnight bag, a bag with a bottle of wine for my college roommate who was hosting me in Manhattan that evening, my huge purse and of course the iPad in its handy dandy tote-case (since afterall I was meeting said photographer professionally on this occasion and would be showing him my artists' portfolios over a drink...or two...or dinner...drinks, dessert, and so on).
In anycase. Picture me frazzled from having gotten off the 5am megabus at 9 and going straight into a day of meetings with clients and potential new artists to represent, an hour at the gym, a coffee with the bff, and sitting up at one of the tall tables at the trendy bar I suggested we meet at with all five bags at my feet, barricading me in my seat. I looked like the complete spaz that I was.
A few minutes ago when I realized how happy I was that I would only have to travel East this evening with very little in tow, I was carrying my big purse that I now tote the iPad in because I was coming from a couple meetings in Brooklyn, and a frightening thought occured to me: I feel weighed down, oppressed and overwhelmed wearing a pea coat and carrying a bag on my shoulder, what in God's name am I going to do when I have a child to lug around someday?
Living at the 81st St subway station, it's inevitable that there are mothers and their little ones or nannies and their clients' kids getting off midday for excursions to the Museum of Natural History, so naturally I am always carried away by the cuteness that is their excitement upon seeing the murals of the animals and dinosaurs along the walls of the station. Because there's very few things more adorable, but still... to sit in your seat on the subway car and see the pictures through the window is one thing, to have to go through the process of disembarking, getting through the turnstile with baby, diaper bag, maclaren stroller, hats, mittens, scarves, jackets, pacifiers, blankies and whatever else goes along with you on the excursion...
I am literally exhausted just imaging the process. I was frazzled carrying five bags for myself to a dinner date. I am annoyed having to hoist a bag over my shoulder just so I'll have the iPad well secured for travel around the city. I was excited planning what small purse I'll pack with lipstick, wallet, and metrocard six hours from now. I'm just baffled by the fact that I'll be 26 in 18 days and here I am the girl who used to want to have popped out three babies by the time I'd turned 30, and now it's a lifestyle that's rather altogether unfathomable to me.
Now for where this all gets a little trickier to tackle. (Trickier? Thus far this has been inane babble that any 20something single girl in the city's likely to think on any given day but not bother anyone else with. Still I think I'm getting to some sort of relatively insightful delivery of a day in the life that's somewhat more interesting and slightly funnier than finding an Eat Pray Love trailer while tracking down an exercise routine, so I'm plowing onward).
Last night my bff was going to Brooklyn to meet up with a specialfriend, and I said to him piss and vinegarily, "pssh, I would never go to Brooklyn for a boy."
But then this morning, I had a meeting with a producer who grew up on Long Island, went to Syracuse, moved to Manhattan, and is now living in Brooklyn Heights all happy-family-ly with her husband and 5 year old daughter. And I don't know if you're familiar with the Clark Street stop on the 2/3 just one stop out of Manhattan and into Brooklyn, but it is so damn cute. So. Damn. Cute. It spits you out on a tree lined Street with a friendly little cafe and a Gristedes on the opposite corner. And I'll be damned if I didn't think to myself leaving that meeting, "well I mean I guess I would go to Brooklyn for a boy if we could live on Clark Street in Brooklyn Heights and buy pink-sparkly-sugar-covered cookies for our little five year old daughter who was having her first playdate today."
Will the real slim shady please stand up? Will the real Naugs ever be revealed to me even?!?! Would I rather go simple pursed on this date across town or have a five year old who I'd get all excited showing the animal and dinosaur murals to in the moments before I whisked her and her entourage of random little kid accessories up the stairs to the museum?
I don't know. But that's where this blog's going. With me on the decision making quest. Cause believe me, y'all, this is about choice every step of the way.
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