Passing for Normal on an Ordinary Day
Here’s a secret. I have never in my life felt like I fit in in New York City. For as long as I have had to come here, I have felt like an outsider. There has never been a comfort zone where I found my place. Instead, there has always been a feeling of separation and suspension, as if my body is sprawled, arms and legs wide open on a glass orb where I am merely afforded an opportunity to peek in on the City inside the orb, but never to be a real part of it. I liken it to holding a snow globe in your hands and seeing the tiny miniature figurine inside.
I guess that is why I have never truly cared to work in the City, though oddly have found myself back here time and time again. By necessity more than choice, I walk around a lot in the mornings or during lunch. Every time the many put-together, slick city folks both amaze me and make me feel microscopic or nonexistent. I come across so many instances in a day of ways in which I don’t measure up. To some people the City is like a second skin. They wear it lovingly like a coat, they wrap themselves in its various places and faces, and they immerse themselves in its diversity.
Not so for me.
In sharp contrast, I feel like an intruder and a phony on any given day. Even though I love clothing and shopping and could put together a nice outfit, I always feel frumpy and misshapen in the presence of the perfectly groomed and polished females of Manhattan. I tug and pull at my blouse, my hair, and my bag. I look around wondering if someone is looking back and rolling their eyes. No one ever is. Most days, I feel as if at any moment I will be discovered and fingers will be pointed my way and people will call me out: Imposter! Liar! Fake!
It’s very difficult to be an authentic part of this City. Though it is metropolitan and trendy in so many ways, it is also exclusive and separatist in ways people would not normally expect it to be. If you have the cash, you can pretty much mold the City to your liking. Just ask Donald Trump. His New York City and the one I live in are like two different planets. If you don’t have the cash, but the looks are there, then you can blend in with the fast crew and pass for perfect. Just ask preppy killer, Robert Chambers, who could have gone on running with the fast and rich kids had he not become involved in that little murder thing with Jennifer Levine.
What Chambers had that was so appealing to the New York City I am not a part of is looks. And by looks I don’t mean he was cute or not, or handsome, or not. He simply looked a certain way – equally comfortable on the Upper East Side, as in a house in the Hamptons. He ran with the six-figure babies of the trust fund persuasion. No matter that he was the son of a hard working single mother; he lived a fast life with his fast friends. And even though it is so many years later, his kind of look still grants you entry into a world that I only see on television. Despite its apparent appeal, I find I have no desire to be a part of that kind of city life.
The bar scene, the club scene, the high-end shopping scene and the high-cost dining scene just do not interest me. I would much prefer traipsing and shopping around a suburban mall than I would a concrete city block. I find the pace in city stores and eateries exhausting. Often times, I lose both my desire to shop and my desire to eat by the mere place or setting. It is true what they say: “Location is everything” and this location is not my cup of tea.
Sometimes, when I walk around at lunch, I catch a glimpse of the “life” in the faces of the outdoor summer diners who take their lunch along a row of tables set up by their choice of eatery to enjoy the summer months while they can. On other days, I head to Union Square Park because people keep saying it’s so nice to just sit and read there. Well, reading is the last thing I can do there. It is such a chaotic kaleidoscope all the time that I find I can’t concentrate or make sense of even one sentence in my book. People also say that the Farmers’ Market at Union Square is so popular that people come from all over just to sample its fares. Well, maybe it’s just me but all I get from that place is the feeling of being trapped in a kind of claustrophobic’s hellish nightmare. Dodging groups, singles and couples strolling slowly through the market has no value to me whatsoever.
A young woman I used to work with, in one of my big city incarnations of yesteryear, was a newbie to the City from a small town out of state, She showed up to that office, doe-eyed and determined to be a big city slicker. She quickly got to the task at hand and traded her comfy flat Sketchers for the impossibly high, obviously painful Manolo knock-off heels. She went ahead and got the clothes, the apartment and the habits. She was hell-bent on blending in. Yet months later, in a funk on a day when she was more moody than most, she confessed to finding the expectations of the City to be out of her realm financially, emotionally and spiritually. “Draining,” I said, “isn’t it? She nodded in agreement and said it was difficult to walk up and down any street here and not begin to judge and criticize yourself for all of the shortcomings you are sure everyone else can see as well. No matter what your level of self-esteem, the City will suck it out from right under you. “I can’t even eat, Marilyn. Look at these people! They’re all so skinny and gorgeous, “ she says in exasperation. She says skinny-and-gorgeous as if these were one word. I suspect that in her mind, it is one word. She will touch upon this dilemma repeatedly in the time that I know her. Remarkably, she seemed to have a total disregard (or was it selective blindness?) for the people in the City who are not so perfect and, truth be told, probably out number the ones she focused on. She went on to explain that people here must spend tons of cash trying to perfect their appearance. She said that she didn’t have tons of cash and so she felt inadequate. Finally, answering all the questions she just asked herself, she added, "I just can’t deal anymore!" And I totally got her.
For whatever reason, I will never be that puzzle piece that finds a place in the board and settles in nicely. I might have grown up in the outskirts of Manhattan, but deep down I am some sort of misplaced country girl. Whatever the appeal of New York City is, I can’t quite put my finger on it. I remain amazed when people I work with claim with great jubilance that they have an apartment in the City within walking distance of the office. Huh? Is that a good thing? When I leave the office, all I want to do is be away from it and the proximity to distance ratio afforded on a 6 mile by 4 mile island is not enough!
At the end of any day, when I dart out of the office and head for home, all I feel - as the distance grows - is bliss – bliss for the distance, bliss for the escape and bliss because at some point I will be home, in the woodsy existence of my suburban oasis.
I guess that is why I have never truly cared to work in the City, though oddly have found myself back here time and time again. By necessity more than choice, I walk around a lot in the mornings or during lunch. Every time the many put-together, slick city folks both amaze me and make me feel microscopic or nonexistent. I come across so many instances in a day of ways in which I don’t measure up. To some people the City is like a second skin. They wear it lovingly like a coat, they wrap themselves in its various places and faces, and they immerse themselves in its diversity.
Not so for me.
In sharp contrast, I feel like an intruder and a phony on any given day. Even though I love clothing and shopping and could put together a nice outfit, I always feel frumpy and misshapen in the presence of the perfectly groomed and polished females of Manhattan. I tug and pull at my blouse, my hair, and my bag. I look around wondering if someone is looking back and rolling their eyes. No one ever is. Most days, I feel as if at any moment I will be discovered and fingers will be pointed my way and people will call me out: Imposter! Liar! Fake!
It’s very difficult to be an authentic part of this City. Though it is metropolitan and trendy in so many ways, it is also exclusive and separatist in ways people would not normally expect it to be. If you have the cash, you can pretty much mold the City to your liking. Just ask Donald Trump. His New York City and the one I live in are like two different planets. If you don’t have the cash, but the looks are there, then you can blend in with the fast crew and pass for perfect. Just ask preppy killer, Robert Chambers, who could have gone on running with the fast and rich kids had he not become involved in that little murder thing with Jennifer Levine.
What Chambers had that was so appealing to the New York City I am not a part of is looks. And by looks I don’t mean he was cute or not, or handsome, or not. He simply looked a certain way – equally comfortable on the Upper East Side, as in a house in the Hamptons. He ran with the six-figure babies of the trust fund persuasion. No matter that he was the son of a hard working single mother; he lived a fast life with his fast friends. And even though it is so many years later, his kind of look still grants you entry into a world that I only see on television. Despite its apparent appeal, I find I have no desire to be a part of that kind of city life.
The bar scene, the club scene, the high-end shopping scene and the high-cost dining scene just do not interest me. I would much prefer traipsing and shopping around a suburban mall than I would a concrete city block. I find the pace in city stores and eateries exhausting. Often times, I lose both my desire to shop and my desire to eat by the mere place or setting. It is true what they say: “Location is everything” and this location is not my cup of tea.
Sometimes, when I walk around at lunch, I catch a glimpse of the “life” in the faces of the outdoor summer diners who take their lunch along a row of tables set up by their choice of eatery to enjoy the summer months while they can. On other days, I head to Union Square Park because people keep saying it’s so nice to just sit and read there. Well, reading is the last thing I can do there. It is such a chaotic kaleidoscope all the time that I find I can’t concentrate or make sense of even one sentence in my book. People also say that the Farmers’ Market at Union Square is so popular that people come from all over just to sample its fares. Well, maybe it’s just me but all I get from that place is the feeling of being trapped in a kind of claustrophobic’s hellish nightmare. Dodging groups, singles and couples strolling slowly through the market has no value to me whatsoever.
A young woman I used to work with, in one of my big city incarnations of yesteryear, was a newbie to the City from a small town out of state, She showed up to that office, doe-eyed and determined to be a big city slicker. She quickly got to the task at hand and traded her comfy flat Sketchers for the impossibly high, obviously painful Manolo knock-off heels. She went ahead and got the clothes, the apartment and the habits. She was hell-bent on blending in. Yet months later, in a funk on a day when she was more moody than most, she confessed to finding the expectations of the City to be out of her realm financially, emotionally and spiritually. “Draining,” I said, “isn’t it? She nodded in agreement and said it was difficult to walk up and down any street here and not begin to judge and criticize yourself for all of the shortcomings you are sure everyone else can see as well. No matter what your level of self-esteem, the City will suck it out from right under you. “I can’t even eat, Marilyn. Look at these people! They’re all so skinny and gorgeous, “ she says in exasperation. She says skinny-and-gorgeous as if these were one word. I suspect that in her mind, it is one word. She will touch upon this dilemma repeatedly in the time that I know her. Remarkably, she seemed to have a total disregard (or was it selective blindness?) for the people in the City who are not so perfect and, truth be told, probably out number the ones she focused on. She went on to explain that people here must spend tons of cash trying to perfect their appearance. She said that she didn’t have tons of cash and so she felt inadequate. Finally, answering all the questions she just asked herself, she added, "I just can’t deal anymore!" And I totally got her.
For whatever reason, I will never be that puzzle piece that finds a place in the board and settles in nicely. I might have grown up in the outskirts of Manhattan, but deep down I am some sort of misplaced country girl. Whatever the appeal of New York City is, I can’t quite put my finger on it. I remain amazed when people I work with claim with great jubilance that they have an apartment in the City within walking distance of the office. Huh? Is that a good thing? When I leave the office, all I want to do is be away from it and the proximity to distance ratio afforded on a 6 mile by 4 mile island is not enough!
At the end of any day, when I dart out of the office and head for home, all I feel - as the distance grows - is bliss – bliss for the distance, bliss for the escape and bliss because at some point I will be home, in the woodsy existence of my suburban oasis.
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