I’m only doing this because my computer sucks.
No, really. I’m trying to get this website up and running (it’s Tuesday, June 7, 2016, at 11:33 p.m., and I’m three IPAs deep) before an Ed2010 social in Manhattan tomorrow, and everyone but the voice inside my head tells me I should do a blog. And again, I wasn’t going to, but my MacBook is tectonic plate-slow and Squarespace really isn’t trying to load right now, so I just fired up Word and I’m having a crack at it.
I suppose this transition period would be a good start. I’ve been living in New York City for about 72 hours (Richmond Hill, Queens—11 miles from Midtown, Manhattan to be specific—this is what you get for $375 a month in a friend’s basement). I just finished my undergraduate degree at Mizzou and I didn’t even attend my own commencement because I was pulling into town, aggressively hungover, while I was supposed to be walking. I was on my way back from my final SEC Championship in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and let’s just say the post-meet pool party was wet.
So I ran track in college for four years, and now that’s done. I always thought an identity crisis would follow, but it’s actually much easier to not run 90 miles-per-week than the opposite. So let’s move past that: I’m in New Dorp, New York, for 11 weeks as an editorial intern at Men’s Health, and I’m still trying to figure out what to make of it. New York is cool in most senses of the word, unless you’re broke, in which it’s scary but still pretty cool. It’s filthy, careless, reckless, and I adore it so far. Everyone is here to do something, and so am I. Mostly, I like it because there isn’t the film of Midwestern bullshit colloquialism that you get where I’m from in Chicago, or where I went to school in Missouri.
Since arriving here, I politely asked a worker at Starbucks if my bagel was coming up soon, and she told me exactly where to shove it. Last weekend, I saw a couple of youths doing back flips on the 6 train to Harlem for tips. And today, when my 6 train to Brooklyn stopped abruptly, the middle-forties woman I bumped into turned to me and said, “Thanks, thanks for that,” as sarcastically as possible. For some reason, I love that.
They say that if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. There’s probably some truth to that, but in some ways, I already feel like it’s easier to make it here. Because if you’re willing to hustle—and be exceptional—great things will come.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m going to try to do this once a week, so stay tuned to see if I survive. If not, I’m sure it’ll be an interesting read regardless.