Explosions and Sobriety

Do you ever feel that you have exhausted all options and all of the options you've been pursuing lead to nowhere, nothingness, emptiness? Well, that's the idea I've been toying with over the last weeks. That is, after I experienced the explosion in midtown Manhattan.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

On that frightful day, I was on the phone with my Mom, furiously debating on whether or not to attend a "Margarita Madness Singles Happy Hour" when a huge, booming, thundering ominous sound filled the air. I looked above my building and saw what looked like an enormous cloud of white smoke billowing from the top floors. "RUN! RUN!THE BUILDING IS COLLAPSING!" everyone was shouting and crying.

I quickly began hauling my ass toward the East river, hyperventilating and praying that I wouldn't die in a terrorist attack.

As I was running:

I WASN'T thinking about what I would wear to the big party I had on Friday.

I WASN'T thinking about why the guy I had had a good time with a few days earlier still HADN'T called me.

I WASN'T thinking about the fact that I needed to stop binging on Chinese food and exercise more.

I WASN'T thinking that my roots were showing and I needed to get my hair highlighted again.

I WASN'T thinking about getting a pedicure.

I WASN'T thinking about how much money I WASN'T making

I WASN'T thinking about how I wished I had a new apartment in Soho.

I WASN'T thinking about the piles of laundry stacked in my room.

I WASN'T thinking about my lack of direction or laziness.

I WASN'T thinking about getting into another exclusive NYC club.

I CERTAINLY WASN'T thinking about sex, men or relationships.

I WAS thinking that I wanted to live, and, the only person I wanted to talk to was my Mom, to tell her how much I loved her.

****

They say everything goes in cycles. I haven't drank a sip of alcohol since the blast, and, my social life has gradually (kind of) fluttered out the door, past the velvet ropes. Keep in mind of course, I'm the kind of person who, at nine years old, would call my Mom at three in the morning to pick me up from a "fun" slumber party just so I could sleep in my own bed.

I don't want to be in a clique. And... I like sleeping in my own bed.

A friend of mine once told me: "Honey, everyone has slept with everyone here in New York." Living here long enough, I've began to realize it's really true.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

****

Writing this blog has been a bit like sitting on a teeter totter. On one end I'm teetering on revealing TOO much. On the other end I'm tottering on NOT revealing enough, and reading my previous posts usually sends me into a self-conscious frenzy.

What if people find out who I really am?

What if I'm too honest?

Do I really have to elaborate on EVERY detail of my sappy and confusing drunken dating (night) life?

I guess blogging is like dating. A love/hate relationship on facing one's own idiosyncrasies and still trying to come across as lovable and witty on occasion.

After the random, freakish steam pipe explosion that happened at the building where I work, I began to feel angry at myself for the superficial red flushes of emotion that I've splattered across my blog. But now... I've realized that I'm just human, trying to make it in New York, and, unsuccessfully trying to decode the crazy men AND women that I stumble upon on a daily basis.

It's safe to say that BECAUSE of the blast, I haven't been drinking. And BECAUSE I haven't been drinking, I'm not attracted to the men who have been pursuing me, anxious to get in my pants.

Since the explosion, I've ignored the calls and texts and invitations from ALL of the boys and instead have chosen to hide out at home and watch bad reality TV with my cat.

****

This morning as I was walking to the subway, a homeless man in a wheelchair screamed at me, "Miss, miss! Can you help me cross the street?"

I chose to ignore him, afraid he was going to ambush me if I attempted to help him.

The homeless guy then screamed: "You fucking bitch! I hope you break both of your legs!"

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

Maybe, since I survived a random, freak explosion, AND, I have both legs, it's safe to consider going go to the next "Margarita Madness Singles Happy Hour?"