Life, In Three

1) I’m having a birthday party this weekend.

2) My boss suddenly has it in for me.

3) I’ll be in South Beach the rest of the week.

Tattler, out –

Sparring

First things first: I found a dress. Little, black, cocktail, all the important things. The thing is, shopping for dresses these days is absolutely, downright, horrifically depressing. I’m short and wear a size 4, which means that most normal dresses (like that cute Nicole Miller that was on sale) just don’t hang right. Usually they’re too big on top and too long on the bottom. When I’m skinny I can get away with a size 2, but these days I need a 4 petite. And petite clothes are just about the ugliest thing ever. If I were 60, I’d STILL be too young to be wearing three-quarters of that stuff.

Anyway, here’s the dress I wanted:

And here’s the one I bought:

OK, so that was the dress. Moving on. I spent a good chunk of Saturday fighting with my boyfriend. So much for not being able to provoke him. He was yelling alright. And he said something nasty and uncalled for that made me cry.

I’ve been so out of sorts lately. I know it’s singularly selfish. People would kill to have my life. I mean, it’s hard to live in New York City (make it here, make it anywhere, and so on), but by all accounts I’m succeeding marvelously. I’ve got the boyfriend, the job, the apartment in the West Village (on the horizon), and hell, I’m even invited to some fancy schmany black tie dinner Friday night. And yet? I don’t know. I haven’t been myself.

“I’ve been really cranky lately,” I told Bateman as we were walking to the gym on Saturday.

“What’s with that?”

“I don’t know. I’m just in a funk.”

I think fundamentally I just HATE waiting. I think if I were LIVING with Bateman already, I wouldn’t be second-guessing myself every other day. I’d be comfortably enjoying our routine. It’s when I don’t see him for long stretches of time that I get antsy. He’s working nights, I’m traveling all over the country. It’s NOT conducive to maintaining a relationship.

I stayed over at his place last night. By tacit agreement, we didn’t mention our fight. But I couldn’t help alluding to it — part of it — at bedtime. “What if I get a big promotion down the line?” I asked him as we were lying in bed. “What if they want to bring me over to their London headquarters?”

“I can practice in London,” he said.

Then we had sex. Now I don’t know WHAT I’m feeling. Well, I’m thinking that a promotion in London would be pretty damn cool. Especially if Bateman were willing to come with me.

Hello, My Name Is Cliche

It dawned on me today that maybe I’m actually getting cold feet about moving in together.  About The Future.  Right now I feel like I’m staring down a path toward Happily Ever After with someone I could see myself marrying, and I HATE it.  I’m sick of staying in New York, but it’s more than just this city.  It’s me and the fear that if I stay here, I’ll never get that adventure I’m pining for.  It’s like my mom said: Bateman is very close to his family, and he won’t want to move so far away from them.  And if we have kids, well, then I’ll want to be close to my family so they can help out.

And I’m listening to this going, NOOOOOOOO … I don’t WANT THAT.  That is precisely what I DON’T want out of life.  I want to live in San Francisco, and London, and maybe even some place crazy like Hong Kong.  And I kind of feel like I’m on a path that could split both ways.  See where my career takes me, or give it all up to support Bateman and his residency here in Hometown, USA, even if that Hometown does happen to be New York City (A+ in awesome, etc. etc. etc.)

The Other Side of the Story

You didn’t know me last year when every week I was rip-roaringly MAD at Bateman about one thing or another. God, was I angry. All. the. damn. time. I remember once I was so furious at him (over sushi, of all things) that I had a temper tantrum in bed and kicked all the sheets on the floor.

And why?

To be honest, I really don’t know. (Cough, anger management issues, cough.) Uncertainty in our relationship, I think. It was a tough time. We had been dating for over a year, but the entire time long distance. There were still four months before Match Day, when fourth year medical students find out where they’ll be doing their residencies. Bateman could have been headed to Denver, or Philadelphia, or Stony Brook, and I wasn’t ready to move to any of those places. And we hardly ever talked about Feelings or The Future.

Anyway, things got better when we found out that he would be right here in Manhattan. I cried when he told me. I’m not even kidding. I was standing on the corner of 54th and 3rd during my lunch break when my cell phone rang. It was Bateman. I tried to congratulate him, but I couldn’t speak. I had to hang up almost immediately, and then I ran into Barnes & Noble and sobbed hysterically for 10 minutes in the SAT review section. I wasn’t even sure WHY I was crying. It wasn’t happiness, or sadness, or any other feeling I could identify. It was just EMOTION. I was crying tears of emotion.

He called me again later that night; he was celebratory, probably a little drunk. This time I found my voice. “I’m so excited for you,” I gushed. Sincerely.

“I’m excited for us,” he said. And suddenly I knew that us would be OK.

But now, eight months later, I’m getting angry again, and I think it’s Fear. This moving in together thing. I’m not going to pretend that the ONLY thing I’m feeling is jubilation. There’s Fear involved. Uncertainty. Emotion. Feelings that aren’t always easily identified.

Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly consumed with the idea of Moving Away From New York.

But I’m not going to let these feelings get the best of me. Or, at least, I’m going to try.

Hi, I’m Back

I’m dead-tired today. I landed yesterday at 5 am, crawled under my covers at 6:26 am, and didn’t emerge until ten hours later, which turned out to be a big, fat problem when I needed to go back to bed at a Decent Hour in order to be at work today.

OK, so no one feels bad that I have jet lag. I mean, you shouldn’t. After all, I just got back from San Francisco where the weather was 75 degrees everyday, and I got to drink outdoors on a rooftop overlooking the city, and walk on the beach in November. Plus, on my last afternoon, I even rented a car so I could drive to the Pacific Ocean and just … and just … bask in it.

So there I was, driving my little red car down Geary Boulevard, the windows open, not a care in the world, and thinking, I wish this were my life. I wish I could stay here forever.

Coming home was tough. I mean, sleeping in my own bed is great. Being in the same time zone as my boyfriend is great. No longer having to eat alone in strange restaurants is great. But getting back to the daily grind? Ehhh ….

Not so great.

I really want to go away. I know I’ve been saying this forever. I’ve always worked for international companies, which means that about once the year I get the opportunity to transfer to a new office. And while I always say I want to do it, I inevitably chicken out at the last minute because I’m afraid I’ll miss my boyfriend and not make any new friends and be pathetically lonely and homesick with no one to talk to except the local bartender. So every year I opt to stay in New York, and spend the next 11 months wallowing in regret.

Look, New York is great. I was at a bar Sunday night, chatting with a young couple that happened to be sitting next to me. (Yes, I sometimes drink alone when I travel. What of it?) “What’s the best thing about New York?” the guy asked me. He’s never been here. The question threw me. What’s … so … great … about … New York. Well, nothing, I thought at first. San Francisco is much better. Look at your weather! Your flowers! Your huge organic supermarkets! But then I recanted. C’mon. Everyone knows New York is the greatest city that ever citied. We have the best restaurants, the best bars, the best museums, the best discount airlines, the best subway system, the best shopping, the best architecture, and the best energy of any city. So finally I said, “New York is great because we have everything you could ever want, and we do it better than anyplace else.” And it’s true. New York gets an A+ in being awesome.

But sometimes? I just want average. I want a little baby blue car, a house or apartment where I don’t constantly hear my neighbors, year-round spring weather, and a beach close by. And of course my same job and my same boyfriend and my same salary (but with a better cost of living.) Is that too much to ask?

Greatest City in the WORLD

I want to cry every time I get on the subway lately.  And this is coming from someone who’s lived her entire life in the city, riding the subway almost daily, and a fairly hardened New Yorker to boot.  But lately, every time I’m pushed into an overstuffed car, shmushed under some guy’s armpit (because he insists on holding onto a pole, even if it means sticking his arm over my head), unable to concentrate on my iPod because some teenager is playing his PSP on full volume, and breathing in air that someone else just exhaled … I want to break down and sob.  It’s only happened once — crying because I was so uncomfortable — but I think about it every single day.

I’m not sure what happened to New York.  I can’t tell if it’s me — if I’m getting older and crankier and increasingly “over” the city — or if the city reached a saturation point between the economic downturn of the early 1990s (when I was a kid) and the recent boom years of late.  Perhaps it’s a combination of both.  Or perhaps it’s the single-subway-line neighborhood I now live in; I was on the V-train last Friday during rush hour and remember thinking, I’m not having a panic attack!  I can BREATHE!

I know that I once I move in with Bateman I’ll be able to walk to work.  I savor that thought, and it’s the only thing keeping me from packing my bags and fleeing to rural Kansas.  But everyday, I confront a love-hate relationship with a city I once missed so acutely that my mom would send me the glossy New York Times real estate section in college.

I’m going to San Francisco in a couple of a days; I’ll be there for almost a week.  I am head over heels in love with San Francisco.  It has New York’s energy, its attitude, its quirkiness.  And yet it also has sky and space and breathtaking marina views and bright flowers and year-round spring weather and wineries and colorful buildings and neighborhoods that run from elegant to gritty and don’t all blend together in a tide of Starbuckses, Barnes & Nobles and Banana Republics.

Plus, they still love their cars there.  Just like the rest of California.  Only, you know, they drive Priuses.  And ZipCars.

If Bateman weren’t doing his residency in New York, I’d leave in an instant.  He’s the only “factor” I couldn’t replace if I left New York.  I have friends everywhere; my company has offices across the globe.  I could meet new people, find new haunts, connect with far-flung relatives.  I could be having an Adventure, instead of being suffocated here day in and day out.

Bateman knows I want to leave; I tell him constantly.  And he knows that I’m not bluffing these days either.  I didn’t want to move — not really — when I was offered that promotion in San Francisco, but the seed was planted.  Before then, I never would have even considered relocating, and now it’s my pet obsession (that, and having a car again.)  Given the chance, I think I really would do it, just to get away, just to do something different.  Just to BREATHE again.

“But you have a boyfriend here,” he says, “who loves you.”

How can I give up someone I care about so much it hurts?  The short answer is I can’t.  And maybe that’s where the crying comes from.

The Countdown Begins

I woke up today in another GMNR. You see, I had been eagerly counting down the days until October 26. And I can now say, with October 26 finally behind me, that there are LESS THAN SIX MONTHS until Moving In With My Boyfriend Day. I thought I’d never get to this point.

And sure, it’s still a long way off, but when you consider that I’m only working a single, solitary full week this entire month (thanks to business trips and Thanksgiving), well, time is speeding along quite nicely.

It was a sweet weekend, yesterday especially. Yesterday was our routine of going to the gym together, and running errands together (new Pumas for me!), and cooking Chilean sea bass and mashed potatoes together. And then lying on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and thinking that I’m the only person in the world who gets to be this close to him. I know that moving in together doesn’t guarantee that everyday will be a Moment, but it does guarantee that when we do have those Moments, they won’t end with a kiss on his sleeping head and a whispered, “I’ll see you in two weeks, baby.”

Two. weeks. Yes, I’m excited about going to San Francisco. Yes, I’m excited about getting away from the office, and 70 degree weather, and visiting one of my favorite cities, and ending each busy (but productive!) day with a glass of wine, a guidebook and those big, fluffy hotel pillows.

But still. Two weeks is a long time to go without seeing one’s significant other, is it not?

OK, moving on. I got some ridiculous bite on my knee over the weekend. Apparently the mosquitoes in Manhattan don’t realize that it’s almost NOVEMBER and why the hell aren’t they all dead or hibernating? Also, they’re BIG. This bite must be an inch long. So gross. Be warned.

City of Angels

This never-having-enough-time-with-my-boyfriend thing is really getting the best of me. So I mentioned that trip to LA, right, ranted about tourists, and so forth. The thing is, two years ago, I would have been DYING to go. But now, even though I’m excited, I’m not like flipping out, jumping up and down, screaming my head off excited.

And you know why? Because of Bateman. Because I figure that since he’s doing outpatient clinic that week, he might actually get a four-day weekend around Christmas and I won’t get to spend that time with him. It’s crazy, though. I mean, obviously, being in Los Angeles with my one of my best friends will kick the pants off of whatever activity I plan with Bateman. Because, really, let’s be honest here. I LOVE Bateman, but that doesn’t automatically mean I can’t sometimes have more fun with someone else, right?

Well, obviously, that’s right. It’s been tough to get it through my head, though. When he has time off, I feel pressure to drop everything and spend it with him. And, conversely, I get resentful when I think of him spending his only vacation on a SKI trip, instead of doing just about anything else with me. (What is so special about skiing, I ask you? WHAT?) But this isn’t REALLY about how skiing is the most vile sport on Earth. It’s about compromise. And patience. And understanding.

It’s about how I’m going to have a FABULOUS time in Los Angeles with one of my best friends, her family, and one of my favorite great-aunts. IT WILL BE BLISSFUL. I’ve never been!

And Bateman and I can’t sacrifice healthy parts of our relationship (like spending time with other people) just because of his crazy schedule. That would be, well, UNHEALTHY.

(It doesn’t help that I have a cold. The only place I feel like going now is home to bed. Of course, I’ll surely, surely feel differently in December. When it’s cold. And dark. And there’s a car with my name on it waiting for me at LAX.)

Escape from New York

There’s something compelling about the idea of leaving New York. I spent this past weekend upstate; my friends and I rented a house and went hiking. Something about the town struck me as the ideal location for a young adult. The real estate — big, sprawling Victorian homes designed by famous architects of days passed — was reasonably priced; the downtown was walkable with a host of independently owned restaurants, coffee shops, and art galleries; and a 20-minute drive took us to wineries, waterfalls, and hiking trails.

At 1 a.m., after drinking our way from a wine bar to a sports bar to a dive, we sat on the porch of our rented house and talked. Just … talked. On a PORCH. Of a HOUSE. It was very college.

And we were relaxed. We all felt it. No subways, no noisy neighbors, no $12 cocktails — just stars, and grass, and a chipmunk that we first mistook for a rat (you can take the girl out of the city …)

“I don’t want to leave,” Merry said.

“I want to move here,” I said. I meant it too. I pictured a house with a porch a few blocks from downtown, a baby blue Mazda 3 in the driveway, weekly trips to Wegman’s and the farmer’s market, writing fiction in the park, weekend hikes, and evenings at the local university, where I’d get my culture fix.

Later, though, we joked about how long it would take until we started getting antsy for the City. Until we ate in every restaurant, and drank in every bar, and started to get a little stir crazy from the isolation. Also, the cold. The heavy, gray, and unrelenting dreariness that defines upstate winters — and half of fall and spring too.

Merry said a week would do it. I said three days. We were half-joking. I think we really wondered.

“You know,” she said finally, “it all comes down to where your friends are.”

That’s right, I thought, that’s exactly right. I had a great time in college — despite being in the middle of nowhere — because my entire social life was right there with me. Now my friends are in New York City — almost all of them. And they make all the difference.

Even still, as we drove away, I wondered if they’re enough, my friends. If they make up for living in a place of unfathomable wealth and boundless ambition, where most real estate is out of reach, where commutes are long, and airplanes are the only thing that twinkle, twinkle in the sky.

When we pulled into the car rental place, I gave Bateman a call. He had spent the entire weekend working, but I asked him if he wanted to watch the Yankees and have dinner together. A few hours later, as he stroked my hair on his couch — in between squeals and high fives to cheer on our team — I knew that Merry was right, that the people around me ARE enough, and I live in the Greatest City in the World.

Until my train broke down this morning, forcing me to take the bus. Ah well. It’s still good to be back … more or less.

L! A!

One of my best friends invited me to spend Christmas with her family in Los Angeles. Or, as I like to call it: L! A! I’ve never been there. Even though I’m from New York, and New Yorkers are supposed to hate LA, I think I would get along with a city that idolizes cars, frozen yogurt, salads, beaches, and year-round tans.

So I’m excited and hope it works out. My primary dilemma, though, is what to SEE when I get there. I’ll probably have something like four or five and a half days and I’m torn between wanting to experience grossly-touristy things like the Walk of Fame, and wanting to snub touristy things and just eat and drink my way around town.

Which reminds me: I HATE tourists. When Bateman and I were in San Francisco, a place where we WERE. IN. FACT. TOURISTS, I spent a good deal of time complaining about the tourists. They were everywhere. In the hotel. Clogging up the sidewalks of Union Square. Waiting on line in front of restaurants (we refuse to wait on line). Slow, and confused, and just … just … gawking at everything. People, there is a way to visit another city without making a fool of yourself. Move along — you can get the point of a place without standing in one spot, slack-jawed and fumbling with a camera. Try, for the love of GOD, to FIT IN.

Sigh. Tourists.

Anyway, I want to see LA without being all touristy about it. Bateman and I have a pact that we will never, ever in our whole lives be caught dead on a tour bus in a US or European city. So I’m taking suggestions. Either way, it’s exciting. It’s L! A!