Lately I feel like one of Chekov’s Three Sisters. I spend all my time talking about going to Moscow and how my live is so unsatisfying and boring. My job is sucking the life out of me. I feel the way I did when I was seven and in swimming lessons and realized I’d been swimming in a circle in the shallow end while everyone else in class was halfway down the pool.
I am snapping out of it, partially due to an amazing counsel of friends who have read and reread my cover letter and resume and sent me job postings and offered support and advice, all while continually telling me that I’m pretty and not at all high maintenance. But also due to the fact that I am making a concerted effort to get back out into New York and soak up what it has to offer. I’ve been getting back into yoga and trying new restaurants. I joined an improv class at the Upright Citizens Brigade. I might actually go to Moscow, instead of just boring my audience for three hours talking about it.
It has also reminded me of all the other times I’ve been disenchanted with my life, only to be re-enchanted by the kind of magic that only happens here.
A muggy March night, about a year ago, I was over it. Any and all of it. I was in a job that was making me insane and exhausted. I was in vocal peril. I was convinced that no one would ever love me and that dying alone as a croaking, old waitress was all life would ever offer me.
I stopped by my local bodega/flower shop on the way home to pick up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked; the only suitable dinner at 2 AM when you’ve realized that your life is over at 27. As I was leaving, the flower guy sitting outside handed me a red rose and said “You’re so beautiful. I love you.”
I wish I could say that we fell in love that instant, but I am not Katherine Heigl and he was no Seth Rogan. But the tiny florist did make my life seem a lot brighter. I only ate half of my pint that evening and I saved that rose till the last petal dropped.