Why size matters
Because time just isn't as easy to measure.
Less than five months ago I had been living in New York for nearly seven years; L.A. was still a dream. But this weekend, the changes that have taken place in my life since then were most duly noted in terms of size, not time. Because how, in less than five months, could it be possible that I've settled so neatly into this new existance?
I arrived at JFK Friday night, and hopped in a cab to Karen's apartment, where a bunch of my girlfriends were meeting for dinner and drinks. Well, as many girlfriends as you could fit in a studio apartment, which in this case was five, plus one dog. My last apartment in New York was not much bigger than Karen's, but it's amazing how quickly I'd forgotten what that looked like, and have since gotten used the fact that my kitchen in LA is the size of my last bedroom in New York. No joke. The kitchen may, in fact, be bigger. Of course, I was overwhelmed by the warmth of my friends and the gossip that was shared and the way it seemed like no time had passed at all. And that is unmeasurable by any standard.
Saturday we did brunch and Central Park. I did more walking in a day than I would do in a week here, which is great, except that it was easy to remember why I hated New York when you are forced to walk by all the bad stuff and aren't just cruising by on the freeway with Ryan Seacrest chirping in the background. To be fair, I did actually experience a healthy dose of nostalgia and sentiment, since a good deal of our walking was in my old hood, the Upper East Side. The UES was where I spent the happiest of my NYC days, pre 9/11, before I moved away from the park, when I was young and fun and not young and bitter. Nearly every storefront held at least one colorful memory, and I felt like if I looked hard enough, I would have actually seen me and my friends galavanting through the streets of 1999, laughing and gossiping and looking for something - a man, a drink, a laugh, or all of the above. Obviously, little has changed.
Saturday night, we did dinner and drinks, which was also great, except for the fact that drinks started at 8 and continued until sometime after 2 or 3AM, and it would be fair to say that part of my reason for wanting to leave New York was to escape the ease in which this type of excess occurs.
Fortunately, my wooden leg is actually made of steel, and I woke up bright and early the next morning to get ready for Rebecca's baby shower - the reason I came back East in the first place. I took the train into Stamford, and was met by a hormonally tearful girl who looked entirely different than the girl who has been my best friend since the second grade. Rebecca is due on August 28, and she had told me that she had gained quite a bit of weight and was just about ready to pop, but I still wasn't prepared to see my life-long size 2 friend carrying around more than a basketball in her dress. That's not to say she didn't look good -- she looked amazing. Radient, blond, stylish, and prepared. But she looked like a grown up. And here I was coming off an 6+ hour drinking shift in the city. (Nine+ hours if you want to count the drink we had at Bounce at 5:00 after we randomly ran into Chris Frank on the street - of course I had to have at least one run-in).
The shower was interesting; I'll leave it at that, only because I have such weak baby-loving bones in my body that I don't want to risk sounding more self-absorbed than I already do. I stayed the night at Rebecca's, and helped her sort through the gifts, taking the tags off the clothes, etc. Then today, her parents had offered to drive me back to the airport, which was much appreciated, as it saved me over $50 in cab fare. (I should mention here that I somehow managed to spend $400 this weekend; that's only counting cash, and not plane fare or anything, so if you want to talk about the size of things, lets talk about the size of my bank account from when I lived in New York compared to my bank account now, despite the fact that I took a pay cut when I moved here).
So, it's 3:00 in the afternoon, Rebecca's dad is driving me to JFK, her mom in the passenger seat, Rebecca and I in the backseat like little kids. Part of me felt 13 years old again, talking to the Steckels like the second family that they are to me, except instead of being driven to the Walpole mall or the school dance, my friend has an 8-month old fetus in her and we are conversing about her next gynecological visit. With her dad. The 13-year old in me wanted to die.
The whole weekend was a reflection on my past, and while I am not abandoning that by any means, I just couldn't wait to come home to LA. I wanted my big apartment, wanted to get back to work, back to whatever semblance of a life I have managed to build up here through Tracy and Keith and driving and being the happiest I have quite possibly been since graduating college. And that is a sizeable statement if I do say so myself.
Less than five months ago I had been living in New York for nearly seven years; L.A. was still a dream. But this weekend, the changes that have taken place in my life since then were most duly noted in terms of size, not time. Because how, in less than five months, could it be possible that I've settled so neatly into this new existance?
I arrived at JFK Friday night, and hopped in a cab to Karen's apartment, where a bunch of my girlfriends were meeting for dinner and drinks. Well, as many girlfriends as you could fit in a studio apartment, which in this case was five, plus one dog. My last apartment in New York was not much bigger than Karen's, but it's amazing how quickly I'd forgotten what that looked like, and have since gotten used the fact that my kitchen in LA is the size of my last bedroom in New York. No joke. The kitchen may, in fact, be bigger. Of course, I was overwhelmed by the warmth of my friends and the gossip that was shared and the way it seemed like no time had passed at all. And that is unmeasurable by any standard.
Saturday we did brunch and Central Park. I did more walking in a day than I would do in a week here, which is great, except that it was easy to remember why I hated New York when you are forced to walk by all the bad stuff and aren't just cruising by on the freeway with Ryan Seacrest chirping in the background. To be fair, I did actually experience a healthy dose of nostalgia and sentiment, since a good deal of our walking was in my old hood, the Upper East Side. The UES was where I spent the happiest of my NYC days, pre 9/11, before I moved away from the park, when I was young and fun and not young and bitter. Nearly every storefront held at least one colorful memory, and I felt like if I looked hard enough, I would have actually seen me and my friends galavanting through the streets of 1999, laughing and gossiping and looking for something - a man, a drink, a laugh, or all of the above. Obviously, little has changed.
Saturday night, we did dinner and drinks, which was also great, except for the fact that drinks started at 8 and continued until sometime after 2 or 3AM, and it would be fair to say that part of my reason for wanting to leave New York was to escape the ease in which this type of excess occurs.
Fortunately, my wooden leg is actually made of steel, and I woke up bright and early the next morning to get ready for Rebecca's baby shower - the reason I came back East in the first place. I took the train into Stamford, and was met by a hormonally tearful girl who looked entirely different than the girl who has been my best friend since the second grade. Rebecca is due on August 28, and she had told me that she had gained quite a bit of weight and was just about ready to pop, but I still wasn't prepared to see my life-long size 2 friend carrying around more than a basketball in her dress. That's not to say she didn't look good -- she looked amazing. Radient, blond, stylish, and prepared. But she looked like a grown up. And here I was coming off an 6+ hour drinking shift in the city. (Nine+ hours if you want to count the drink we had at Bounce at 5:00 after we randomly ran into Chris Frank on the street - of course I had to have at least one run-in).
The shower was interesting; I'll leave it at that, only because I have such weak baby-loving bones in my body that I don't want to risk sounding more self-absorbed than I already do. I stayed the night at Rebecca's, and helped her sort through the gifts, taking the tags off the clothes, etc. Then today, her parents had offered to drive me back to the airport, which was much appreciated, as it saved me over $50 in cab fare. (I should mention here that I somehow managed to spend $400 this weekend; that's only counting cash, and not plane fare or anything, so if you want to talk about the size of things, lets talk about the size of my bank account from when I lived in New York compared to my bank account now, despite the fact that I took a pay cut when I moved here).
So, it's 3:00 in the afternoon, Rebecca's dad is driving me to JFK, her mom in the passenger seat, Rebecca and I in the backseat like little kids. Part of me felt 13 years old again, talking to the Steckels like the second family that they are to me, except instead of being driven to the Walpole mall or the school dance, my friend has an 8-month old fetus in her and we are conversing about her next gynecological visit. With her dad. The 13-year old in me wanted to die.
The whole weekend was a reflection on my past, and while I am not abandoning that by any means, I just couldn't wait to come home to LA. I wanted my big apartment, wanted to get back to work, back to whatever semblance of a life I have managed to build up here through Tracy and Keith and driving and being the happiest I have quite possibly been since graduating college. And that is a sizeable statement if I do say so myself.
Labels: Los Angeles, New York
posted by Lori @ 9:52 PM
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