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On Moving to New York

I’ve seen enough episodes of Sex and the City by now to know that life is not a sitcom. Men like Big don’t change; they become even bigger assholes. Also, Manolo Blahnik shoes are not affordable for a freelance writer. I know all those clichés and fantasies built around New York City are exactly that: media constructed narratives. Still, I am eager to set foot in New York City today because it’s been 10 years since the first time I said I wanted to live there and the day has finally come.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep yesterday, yet I did. It’s surprising given that all the times I’ve moved before I wasn’t able to shut eyes the day before. I’m calm, yet excited, and a little scared, to be honest. But, I’ve watched enough Scandal to understand that when you are scared everything is put into perspective and so you follow your gut, as Olivia Pope would, and it all feels right. What is it they say? If you can’t stop dreaming about it, don’t stop fighting for it?

New York has never seemed idyllic to me, and yet it has. Its beauty lies in its collective misery, the ambition that flows through the streets and camaraderie that never quite feels like it fully. I always envisioned it as a place where I could fulfill my dreams, or at least try because I would rather fail trying than be left with what ifs.

For the moment, I am a living cliché of the trying-to-make-it fashion girl. I’m staying with a friend on a mattress in her living room and browsing for apartments desperate for answers as to where I will live, how is my apartment going to look like and how the fuck am I going to stay on a budget. I am answerless, yet I know all my next moves.

Not to sound redundant but it’s been 10 years of preparation to this moment, and I guess they did make a difference. I learned how to thrive on chaos and navigate people-infested streets with a resting bitch face. New York doesn’t threaten me anymore. It’s a friend and I am happy we are moving in together at last.

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