I have expressed severe emotional instability just three times since I moved to New York City. Once was laying on my kitchen floor, inconsolable on a Saturday morning after first moving when I discovered my Internet was broken and that, not only was I incapable of fixing it, but neither could Dave, the Verizon representative I harassed for over two hours. The other incidents did not involve yelling at Dave and occurred in highly opposite scenarios -- one after a particularly grueling hot yoga class in Herald Square where, immediately after, I witnessed a human defecate on the subway to the most recent occurrence where I realized I am actually the most awkward dater ever.
These are those stories.
My Neighbor Stole My Internet.
The last time I wrote a blog post, I did so not from the comfort of my (very) small studio apartment, but from a jam-packed Starbucks, crunched between a bored teenage girl and a tiny man constantly reading over my shoulder, uncomfortably complimenting me on both my writing and hands. Despite my love of vanilla lattes and the irrational accomplished feeling I receive from racking up gold stars by paying with the app, a coffee shop was not my first choice of prime writing location. That was actually a title reserved for my bed, but unfortunately, was no longer an option for me considering my Internet had gone out the day before.
To be 100% honest, I probably wouldn't have realized my Internet was no longer working that Saturday morning if the screen hadn't gone dark while I was in the middle of Googling "Zayn Malik's man-bun" (which I hope makes it more understandable as to why I ended up crying on the kitchen floor). But, that is exactly what happened and so, I did the first thing that I do in all my technological situations -- call my brother, Jonny.
Jonny is really good at technology and I am really not. When we moved to Boston, we purchased a new television and I didn't know how to turn it on for over two years. It's so bad that I once literally called Jonny when he was in a different state so he could walk me through the process. And, yes, I realize it's ridiculous that I am employed as a digital designer, yet need help with basic tasks like fixing the Wifi. You don't have to judge me, I'm already judging myself.
Anyway, whilst he was in the middle of a car show because apparently that is what my family does on select Saturday mornings, Jonny walked me through the troubleshooting process. For the first time in maybe my entire life, none of his suggestions worked and thus, we blamed Mao, the cable guy who initially set up my service.
Before I talk about how Mao is probably the worst cable guy to ever come through New York City, I have to talk about how wonderful both my brothers are. When I moved here, they not only carried all of my belongings up a six-floor walk-up, but Jonny and Dana essentially put their lives on hold for over a week to set up my entire apartment while I was starting my job. They built IKEA furniture, they made me dinner -- they even dealt with Arthur, my cranky downstairs neighbor who I'll likely be starting a blog about shortly, partly because the altercations we've had are unbelievable and also because I'm slightly afraid he will someday kill me and I'd like it to serve as evidence. But, basically, Jonny and Dana made my transition to NYC so much easier and having them here was the best. They radically helped streamline the stress of becoming settled in my new home and one of the ways they did so was by letting in the cable guy to set up my Internet which is how Mao came into our lives.
In what was slated to be an hour visit, Mao (un)skillfully succeeded in stretching it out into a six hour ordeal. Everything that could have gone wrong did -- he set up the wrong box. He didn't have the correct parts. The person he called in for back-up brought over the wrong parts. He forgot his toolbox on the walk down to the basement, thus having to walk back up the six floors, only to misplace it again. Mao was essentially a small disaster and, when I returned home that night from work, the boys and I spoke about how it was a miracle he'd actually been able to set up my service.
Of course, that miracle only lasted for approximately eleven days and, by that time, my brothers had gone back to their lives in Boston. This left me alone and on the phone with Dave, the Verizon service rep who, after informing me he couldn't get a technician to my apartment for another four days, suggested that I try to troubleshoot what is wrong with my non-existent Internet... by connecting to the Internet.
It was at this point I curled up onto my kitchen floor to cry and also, made the realization that Mao and Dave are clearly friends.
But, my four days without Internet and the ability to see Zayn's new hairstyle on a larger screen than my iPhone passed and, when my technician arrived, I was eager to see him -- partly because he was not Mao, but mostly because I needed him to fix the Internet as soon as possible because I was very, very late to work. My technician, however, was not as eager to see me. The trek up to my sixth floor apartment had wiped him out and, as he breathed abnormally heavy while sitting in the same spot I'd been crying four days prior, I truly feared I was going to have to enlist Arthur to help me take care of this man. Luckily, he recovered, but as he looked at all the things Mao had set up, he groaned, then without a word, ventured down toward the basement.
At this point, I wrongfully assumed two things. First, I was pretty sure that all of this was Mao's fault. Also, I was very doubtful that my new cable guy would make it back up my stairs without dying. But, I was incorrect and instead, as it turns out, Arthur is apparently not my only terrible neighbor and Mao actually kind of does know how to install a cable box. Not-Mao came slowly up the stairs to inform me that someone in my building had gone down into the basement and rerouted my Internet service into their apartment, a thing that he said happens often and that I was powerless to stop.
Then, the two of us sat on my couch for twenty minutes watching CNN in Spanish before I realized we'd transitioned from checking if the cable was working to actually watching television I couldn't understand together and I politely informed him I had to go to work.
Bodily Fluids + YOGA + the Subway
My friend Chelsea has lived in New York City for over two years. My friend Zach has lived here for over six months. I mention the two of them for multiple reasons. First, because they are currently in an argument about who is more commonly featured on my blog so I clearly have to have them both represented equally lest the next time we go out for drinks ends again in a strange sort of argument, but also because in the amount of time they've lived here, neither of them have ever seen someone urinate on the subway.
I have only lived in New York City since January and I've seen it happen twice.
The first time I saw another human publicly piss on another human was when everyone was already in a crisis mode due to the impending snowstorm that shut down the entire city. I was at my old job in the Financial District when we received a company-wide email giving us the go-ahead to leave work early should we feel the blizzard was going to become hazardous to our commute home. Because I'm from Idaho, thus taking away my ability to recognize what's considered a large amount of snow and, at this point, still didn't know how to turn on my television in my apartment without Jonny's help, this was the first time I was even hearing about the snowstorm that was upon us. As I left work and realized the contents of my fridge only contained a single egg and a bottle of wine, I did two things. First, I text Chelsea to see what I actually needed to survive a blizzard alone because she's a real adult and is good at life. Then, I text Zach to make me feel better about my ineptitude because I knew he only had a bottle of whiskey and mustard in his fridge and was just as equally unprepared to handle a snowstorm as I was.
I got on the already-crowded 6 train back to the Upper East Side and we'd only made it ten minutes in the cramped space before a lady began screaming profanities, generally a normal occurrence in my daily commute. However, what is not normal in the New York subway system is people reacting to a lady screaming profanities, yet that is what was currently happening. Not only were more people beginning to yell in disgust, but they also began to clamor over each other in the densely-squeezed space, leaving a circle around a dirty man very purposefully peeing on another passenger. The train stopped, he was forcibly removed from the area and then a large woman knowingly sat down in the not yet cleaned puddle of piss, daring people with her eyes to challenge her decisions.
The next time I saw a similar incident happen, the entire East Side subway shut down and I was over a half hour late for work. However, while they were both times I realized I was very far removed from the small town of where I grew up in Idaho, neither of those urinating stories were the moments where I irrationally cried in New York City.
When I was a senior in high school, one of my very good friends invited me to do my first hot yoga class with her and I immediately became addicted. I bought an unlimited pass and proceeded to not only talk about it constantly, but invited absolutely everyone I knew -- my boyfriend, my brother, the girl from Alaska I'd never talked to, but sat next to me in AP English. Everyone had a different experience, but didn't quite seem to enjoy it as much as I did, (although to be fair, in my brother's case that is definitely because he ate seven tacquitos before entering the 108 degree room).
Since moving to New York City, I've once again become enthralled with Bikram Yoga. Every morning before I go to work, I wake up at 5:15 to walk to the studio by my apartment to take the 6 a.m. class and I've never been happier. I still invite everyone I know, which in New York, is basically limited to Zach, Chelsea and the guy I went on a Tinder date with, but after hearing about how I cried during a class, none of them have taken me up on my persisting offers.
Bikram Yoga is very intense. It's not only physically strenuous, but it's the most mental workout I've had since I was a junior in high school and we had a professional choreographer make us balance on the balls of our feet for over a half hour all whilst not letting ourselves make eye contact with anyone but our own reflection in the mirror. When I participate in hot yoga, I don't only experience a release of stress from my muscles, but an actual release of emotion, in which this particular instance, caused me to cry without knowing why at the end of class. As I lay on my mat, I was happy, sad, exhausted, rejuvenated and very, very confused as to all of the feelings rushing at me, yet the entire time, feeling so thankful for my experience.
After class, I got on the subway with my yoga mat, still slightly teary-eyed and feeling pretty weirdly emotional from what had just happened. Then, a guy brought my train bodily fluid experiences to the next level by shitting himself in the car and I immediately stopped crying.
Welcome to New York.
It's been waiting for you.
To be completely honest, this section of this blog post was not supposed to be about me dating. It was supposed to be about how happy I am with my new job at TIME. It was supposed to be about how I've never really been a morning person, so the fact that I'm out of my apartment by 5:30 every morning is a small miracle and the reason that miracle is possible is because I don't have to be at work until 10:30, allowing me to take a tiny nap between breakfast and bracing myself for the inevitable pissing person on the subway. It was supposed to be about how amazing it is that I get to work with my best friend, how people at work are shocked that Chelsea and I not only went to high school in Idaho, but also college in Indiana together, showing really how far our friendship has come since we met in Drivers Ed when I was fifteen.
Someday, I will learn how to open my eyes in photos.
And, this section could have been about that -- I absolutely love my job and I've honestly never been happier. I'm so thankful for my experiences at my previous job because the people were just incredibly wonderful, as I knew they would be when I interviewed for the position and we talked about Kanye for over half the time. But, after working at the Globe for six months, I fell completely back in love with editorial design and the fact that I get to go to work every day to design the print, tablet and phone product of TIME is something I still have yet to comprehend fully, just like I haven't quite comprehended that I actually live in New York City.
On multiple occasions of living here, I've been overwhelmed by the fact that this is now my life. Sometimes it's something simple, like when we go out for margaritas on a random Wednesday after work and or on Thursday evenings at kickboxing, where Chelsea and I have quickly become our trainer Antonio's favorite duo. There have been so many nights that I've been walking back to my apartment from yoga or work or even just the grocery store and, in all caps and utter disbelief, text Zach "WE ACTUALLY LIVE HERE" in which he usually replies "I know," and our friend Ashley, who is included in our group text and does not live in New York City says, "I don't."
We're much, much better at drinking margaritas than we are at making video blogs.
Immediately after this photo was taken, he tried to hook me up with a guy sporting a man-bun by yelling "MAN-BUN!" repeatedly.
However, as happy as I am at my job, as much as I love my friends and how incredible it is that I live here, I have yet to experience something like I did last night, when I was irrationally laughing so hard to myself in the subway that I started uncontrollably crying, causing all of the people to look at me which clearly means I was causing a minor scene because the second time I saw someone urinate underground, no one even batted an eye.
This is that story and it is the epitome of why I am bad at dating, texting and really just life in general.
Last Saturday, I went on my first Tinder date and honestly, it went way better than I could have ever expected. I'm generally an awkward person anyway, so first dates really highlight my uncomfortable quirks, as shown when I verbally attacked my now-friend Jamison about fonts on a blind date. To be fair, I think this confusion on how to act stems from the fact that I dated the same person between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, so the formative years of what to do on first dates that I could have had in high school have now been pushed back to college and post-graduate life.
Anyway, this date was going weirdly well -- despite the fact that he was 28 and a real-adult/doctor and I am 23 and accidentally set my apartment slightly on fire the other night, we were getting along wonderfully. In fact, as the date progressed and our conversations ranged anywhere from the time he got hit by a cab to how Taylor Swift probably could be every girl's best friend to him reciting all the decimals of Pi he knows, we joked around about how long the people thought we had been together.
Four hours and a walk around Washington Square Park later, he kissed me and asked how long people thought we'd known each other now. And, in what could be my proudest moment and the only time I sincerely believe I will ever be in the position to make a math joke I actually understand, I smiled and said "3.14 years... or, like, forever."
GET IT?! BECAUSE PI IS INFINITE?! I AM SO CLEVER, FRIENDS.
The next morning, I talked to Zach and Ashley in our group text about how the date went well. Ashley approved because he was an actual adult who lives in Brooklyn, Zach approved because the guy's name was also Zach and, to be honest, I approved because I was still feeling smug as hell about my cleverness of combining corniness, math and kissing into a successful first date.
Of course, I ruined this cleverness shortly after on Monday evening when I received a text from what appeared to be my friend Zach that confused me. All it said was "Bad news! I remember the punch line, but forget the rest of your math joke!" I didn't remember telling Zach that details of my math joke, but because on any average day, I receive at least 60 texts from him and usually, 15% of them don't make sense to me, the only thing that really threw me off about this message was that it was sent just solely to me. Though we literally talk every single day, Zach and I haven't texted outside of our group message with Ashley since late 2013, causing her to needlessly be annoyed by the mundane details of us trying to find each other in subway stations, where we should go to dinner and other ridiculously boring things that, at this point, just wouldn't feel right sharing without her, even though she lives in Chicago and absolutely refuses to move to New York City with us.
Now, I can hear all of you being like, "But, Jen, you're so dumb -- it's clearly the other Zach, the Zach who is an actual adult and had you guys drink a full glass of water before leaving the bar, not the Zach who somehow succeeds in getting you to take tequila shots every time the two of you go to a restaurant" and I know. As Mike Birbiglia once said, I'm in the future, too.
Zach and I on the first night we ever went out by ourselves and DID NOT LOSE EACH OTHER. It was a milestone in our four-year friendship and the beginning of a great trend for us in NYC where, without trying, we are given free shots every single time we go out together.
Anyway, because I am an idiot, I sent a text back saying this:
And, in all honesty, because I really am the actual worst, when it was very obviously my date Zach asking if I was referring to him in the third person, I still thought I was talking to a confused (possibly drunk) friend-Zach, which says a lot about our friendship and how often he loves talking about grammar via text message.
When I finally realized that not only would my friend Zach not know those specifics from my date, but really, he'd never text me without Ashley involved, I could not stop laughing at how dumb adult-Zach probably thought I was. Honestly, I was by myself and laughing so hard that tears were running down my face. I dropped my yoga mat and purse on the floor of the subway and I was shaking to the point that my headphones came unattached from my phone, causing Jay-Z to blare as the soundtrack to my minor breakdown.
Really, the only way to describe me at that moment was a spectacle and this is coming from the girl who stopped a bar crawl on St. Patrick's Day weekend in DC to take a photo with a lemon I found on the ground.
Finding this lemon was straight up the best thing that ever happened to me.
So, I'm an embarrassing human being. But, maybe there are some redeeming factors to these stories. Living in New York City has taught me that I'm a good dater, but a terrible texter. I'm not quite as flexible as I was in high school, but I'm more committed to my yoga practice and happier in my job than I have ever been.
And, at this rate, I'm destined to see at least six people a year urinate on the subway. There is no redeeming factor in that, but maybe someday, I can turn it into a math joke.