Living… Large?
Every sane New Yorker goes through semi-regular phases during which they repeatedly ask themselves the penultimate question: “WTF.” Usually this is followed up with “Why do I live here? In a box?” except in instances where said New Yorker is in the investment banking industry. Then, that question usually doesn’t matter because they’re either still in their grey Goldman Sachs cube crunching numbers, or at their ridiculously swank Wall Street studio, drowning their sorrows - alone - in a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue. Tell me - does a $200 bottle of blended whisky taste better when you’re alone?
Since I did not sell my soul to the University of Chicago economics department, and rather preferred to sell it to the heartful upstart that touches children’s lives while protecting their stingy wallets, I am not in the latter category. Instead, I get by on meager allowances and use my personal credit card for work expenses so that I may accrue enough ThankYouPoints to one day get my tail on a plane and escape.
… How depressing.
Today, I’ve fallen victim to another of what I call the seasonal blues in NYC. In the summer, it’s lack-of-central-AC depression. In the fall, it’s why-can’t-I-live-close-enough-to-Central-Park-to-have-falling-leaves-and- movie-moments blues. In winter, it typically laments the fact that the walking distance to the gym, when combined with the ridiculously freezing temperatures and hurricane-force outer-borough winds, prevents any real physical fitness from taking place. Nevermind that my gym boasts a 24-hour schedule. Screw that. The windchill outside is 16 degrees and you’re asking me to walk 15 minutes each way?! No, thanks.
Yes, I would like some cheese with my whine, thanks. But let’s just say that I’ve spent the large majority of my evening perusing Craigslist for better apartments, in better locations, for money I can never afford just to shake myself out of my seasonal funk.
I guess I’ll just go watch the Food Network. At least that will guarantee large living… literally.