New York City Is Good for the Soul...and a Broken Heart

After what happened with the Model, I've been feeling a lot of dark emotions. Anger and hate towards him for deceiving and using me. Resentment and jealousy towards his girlfriend for living in blissful ignorance of his infidelity, and for her Instagram posts where she went on and on about their amazing relationship (and he was always the first to "like" or comment on them). Frustration with myself for still having feelings for him and for feeling compelled to look at their Instagram pages, even though doing so hurt me each time. Sadness and disappointment over what I'll never have with him.

But then last week I went to New York City, a vacation that I'd planned months ago. I'd wanted to go back to New York ever since I first went there four years ago. And gradually, I started emerging from the dark cloud that hung over me ever since I first found out that the Model used me to cheat on his girlfriend.

One of the first things I did was Google "literary events in New York City," which is how I found out about a poetry slam at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. When I lived in Small Town, Tennessee, I used to drive for hours to Nashville on a regular basis, partly because of its thriving literary scene; there were poetry readings and open mic nights for writers almost every week. They don't really have anything like that in College Town, which is why I was excited to attend the poetry slam, not to mention it only cost ten dollars to get in.

The poetry slam at Nuyorican Poets Cafe was very different from the open mic nights I'd attended in Nashville. For one thing, the majority of the poets and audience members were African American, and the audience was much livelier, responding appreciatively with "Mm-hmm," and "Preach!" while the poets read their work. And the poets didn't just read their writing; they performed it, with all the passion, fury, and sadness that they were feeling. Their poems were about topics like what it was like to suffer from PTSD after being date-raped, the anger they felt about young black men getting shot by police officers, the alienation they felt over being biracial, and one in particular stood out: a funny poem by a white guy, who described himself in his poem as "the wokest, whitest, straightest guy who you will ever meet", and went off on a riff about white privilege.

Listening and watching them perform their poetry was like salve on the open wound of my broken heart, and for the first time in a long time, I felt glad that the Model wasn't there with me. He wouldn't have appreciated or understood it in the way that I and the others in the audience did.

I went for a walk in Washington Square Park, and some people invited me and other passers-by to write down short stories on small square pieces of paper that they were handing out. So I did, and then they hung up the story alongside several others on a display they had. It made me happy to know that other people walking through the park could read what I wrote.

I wanted to buy a ticket to a Broadway play, but even the discounted tickets cost eighty dollars, which was more than I could afford. So instead, I managed to get tickets to two different shows for less than forty dollars total: a musical in the Acorn Theater called 68, about the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, and Katie & Julian & Nicholas: Corkscrew Late Night at Paradise Factory, where three "dramaturgs" performed songs from musicals that they had written. One of them described one of his songs as a "burlesque from the point of view of a Confederate statue."

I liked watching the actors perform and sing, except I came down with a sneezing fit during the second show. I think it was due to a combination of several factors: the fact that I'd been walking in the rain in Central Park, the fact that my cheap, dingy hotel room wasn't properly cleaned, or the possibility that one or all of the audience members had rolled around in cat fur before the show (I'm allergic to cats). My nose was literally running throughout the majority of the show. I was sitting at the end of the row near the wall, furthest from the door, and I didn't want to keep getting up to blow my nose in the bathroom during the actors' performances. So I sat there, pulling Kleenex out of my purse again and again and thinking, Don't sneeze don't sneeze don't sneeze ATCHOO! 

I did all the usual touristy things. I got my picture taken with costumed characters in Times Square, who I made sure to tip, of course. I ate a New York style hot dog and slice of pizza. I drank bubble tea in Chinatown and watched Chinese women do Tai Chi in a park. I took the train to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which I think of a hipster's paradise, and which also reminded me of a cross between Lincoln Park and Wicker Park in Chicago. I browsed in bookstores like Book Thug Nation in Williamsburg, where people were reading out loud to each other. I stopped at a juice bar and asked for an apple juice, and when the barista said, "OK! That'll be six dollars," I tried not to respond like this:


via GIPHY

I also went to the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan, and I bought Waiter's Rant by Steve Dublanica and a Dave Barry book because the genre that I like to read most is memoir, especially memoirs where neurotic, obsessive people write about ordinary things in ways that sound hilarious. That's something that I've always aspired to do in my own writing.

I ate chicken parmigiana in Little Italy and admired the Vermeer paintings that were on display in the Frick Collection. I ate breakfast at Balthazar Bakery, and I watched Broadway actors perform for free in Bryant Park. 


It felt so good to be in a big city again, navigating my way through the crowds, listening to the New York accents and hearing people call out to each other in different languages, including French, Spanish, Chinese, Polish, and German. I didn't even mind (too much) the fact that my hotel room in Chinatown was right by the train, which rumbled loudly all night long and made it difficult for me to sleep. Since I hate driving, it was a relief to be able to walk around or take public transportation to get to where I needed to go, despite the extreme heat and humidity and the fact that I had to spend way too much money on bottled water.

What I loved the most about New York is that it's a city full of artists: actors, musicians, painters, writers, etc. Immersing myself in their work inspired me and motivated me to get back to work on my own writing.

I must admit that I am not over the Model, and it will take me some time to get over him. I will never have what his girlfriend has with him: a real relationship and a life with him. When I first realized that, I felt empty inside. I thought that I would never feel for anyone else what I felt for the Model and that I would spend the rest of my life alone. But that week in New York filled me up, and even though I am not yet whole, I realized that even if I never find true love or happiness with someone, I can have my own happy ending: a life that's filled with poetry, books, writing, travel, walks through big, interesting cities like New York, good food in new places, art, music, etc., etc.

I may never be surprised with a romantic vacation to Mexico for my birthday the way the girlfriend was with the Model, but I can take my own vacation that I paid for with my own money to a place like New York City. His girlfriend may very well end up marrying him, and I must admit that if I make the mistake of looking at her Instagram page again in the future and see their wedding pictures, it will hurt like hell. But on the other hand, she will spend her life with a narcissistic, insensitive, dishonest sociopath who cheated on her (and I'm willing to bet that I'm not the only person he's cheated with, which would explain why he often comes back to College Town without her, because that makes it easier for him to hook up with other people behind her back). And I may end up alone, but I will live my life with the freedom to live on my own terms.

What about you? What does your happy ending look like? If you could go on your dream vacation, where would it be?

A Summer Full of Writing

This summer, I have several things on my to-do list: do academic research and hopefully draft a scholarly article by the end of the summer, continue completing work for my website job, and resist the urge to hang a large banner that says "SHUT UP" off the small balcony outside my apartment as a "subtle" hint to my loud, inconsiderate, and obnoxious neighbors that hang out in the yard below.

I saved money from my tax refund this year, and it was just enough to buy me a round-trip ticket to New York City and make reservations at a small hotel in Chinatown for a few days in July. I went to New York City four years ago, and I loved it so much that I've always wanted to go back. I want to watch another play, visit Central Park, and yell at rude people in public. (No one blinks an eye if you yell at strangers in large cities like New York and Chicago because everyone yells there. In college towns like the one I currently live in, on the other hand, there are plenty of rude people but people think it's weird to yell at them, which is why I often have to scream into my pillow and listen to grunge music from the nineties when I come home.)

Another thing I plan to do throughout the summer is write. During the school year, I didn't get to do half as much writing as I would have liked. Instead, I spent more time writing lesson plans, comments on students' papers, and e-mails that said stuff like, "It's not okay to wear your headphones and listen to music during my lectures, or any other part of class, even if your claim that you can read lips really is true."

I already submitted a story to a short story contest hosted by Creative Nonfiction magazine. The theme of the contest was "Home". Last year, I took a one-day writing workshop at the Porch, a writer's collective in Nashville, and "home" was one of the instructor's writing prompts for us. I jotted down memories of my life in Chicago, and even after the workshop, I kept adding more to the story, until I ended up with dozens of pages. I cut and revised the story to adhere to the contest's 4,000 word limit, and I submitted it.

It felt good to put my writing out there again. Even if I don't win the contest, it's okay. Just putting it out there makes me feel like a real writer. Also, if I don't win the contest, I can send it out to other literary magazines. I bought a copy of Poets and Writers magazine, and I also did some online research; I made a list of a bunch of literary magazines that publish creative nonfiction.

Even though I still want to publish fiction, I am also interested in writing creative nonfiction. Many of the books in my bookcase are memoirs, and I especially admire writers like Jen Lancaster, Dave Barry, and David Sedaris. I like how they often write about ordinary things in totally neurotic, funny, and entertaining ways. Jen Lancaster, for example, can make a trip to Target sound hilarious. And that kind of writing style is something I've tried to follow in my own writing. I wish I had the imagination and ability to write stories about extraordinary things, like Margaret Atwood did in The Handmaid's Tale, but I'd rather write about everyday life in a more realistic (and also neurotic) way instead.

I went to a coffee shop last week and wrote out a rough draft of a new nonfiction piece about what it was like when my so-called best friend cut me out of their life several years ago. It was something I'd written about before in my journal because the loss had affected me deeply, so when I sat down to write it out in the form of a story, the words came easily to me and I was able to draft the entire story in one sitting. I plan on revising the story and sending it out to another literary magazine; I might try a new one called True Story. I also have ideas for other stories, including ones about teaching.

One thing that sucks is that most literary magazines refuse to publish anything that's already been posted on a blog like this one because they consider it "previously published", even though I'm lucky if more than a few dozen people actually read my blog every week. It's too bad because there's a lot of stuff that I could have used as material for stories. But that's why I've also continued working on my memoir (which will be a full-length book rather than a short story) about online dating because I don't think there are any rules about using revised versions of blog posts for a book. After all, the writers Julie Powell and Jen Lancaster started out as bloggers, and they turned their blogs into books.

It's been a long, challenging year, and after everything I've been through this year, it will be good to devote my summer to writing things that I want to write, not things that I get paid to write.

What about you? What are your plans for the summer?

I Heart New York

I spent last week in New York City. I loved every minute of it, even though I accidentally got knocked over by naked people wearing body paint in Times Square, had to pay the price of three hot dogs for ONE hot dog, and may or may not have ended up in Coney Island when I was trying to go to the Upper East Side.

I spent four nights there, and I did and saw as many things as I could. The highlight of the week was watching Julia Stiles and James Wirt perform in the excellent off-Broadway play Phoenix. Along with other fans, I waited by the stage door after the show and got their autographs. I kicked myself for being too shy to ask to get my picture taken with Julia, whose work I've admired for fifteen years, ever since I saw her in 10 Things I Hate about You. But I watched her perform live and I got her autograph, so two out of three isn't bad. (She was very nice and gracious to everyone, and gave an autograph to everyone who asked, even the people with several DVDs.)

I spent more than two hours walking around Central Park, though that was partly because it took me more than an hour to figure out how to get OUT of Central Park.

I ate a peanut butter sundae at Serendipity Cafe and didn't feel too guilty eating it, seeing as how I spent hours every day walking around, muttering, "Where AM I?"

I took pictures from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building.

I bought a black Dean & DeLuca T-shirt and felt just like Felicity from the TV show, minus the beautiful hair and cute boyfriends.

I ate lasagna and gelato in Little Italy and beef chow fun in Chinatown. My hotel was in Chinatown, and in the morning I'd buy a fruit smoothie, go to the park nearby, and watch people do Tai Chi.

I watched people playing chess in Washington Square Park and thought of that scene in When Harry Met Sally where they said goodbye by the Washington arch.

I visited the New York Public Library and the bookstores the Strand, Shakespeare & Co., and Housing Works, and I bought a couple books.

I wrote in a cafe in Greenwich Village (which was my favorite neighborhood), and I window shopped in Soho and on Fifth Avenue.

I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which was much bigger than my favorite museum in Chicago, the Art Institute.

I got up early every morning and only came back to my hotel room to shower and sleep. I spent all day walking around and marveling at how much bigger, louder, more crowded, and more colorful everything was in New York than in Chicago. I envied the people who lived there, and I thought of how cool it would be to teach, write, and live in New York City. (I'll probably end up in some small college town, though.)

The best part of the vacation was that for the first time in a long time, I felt happy and relaxed. I'd be standing in a subway car or walking around the East Village or eating dinner in Little Italy, and I'd find myself smiling.

It felt so good to escape my work, my anxieties about my work, my music-blasting, magazine-stealing, let's party like our parents pay our rent because they DO neighbors, the e-mails from students (and their parents) complaining about their grades, the phone calls from relatives asking why I'm not married yet, and my usual days that consisted of work, coffee, exercise, and kicking people who cut in front of me in line. In Chicago I often feel old. In New York I felt ten years younger, like I used to feel when I first moved to Chicago and walked around with the same awe and fascination. It felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

When my plane landed in O'Hare Airport, I found an e-mail regarding a presentation that I have to make in front of my entire department (where my work will be torn apart by graduate students AND professors), another e-mail regarding a bill that's due, and an e-mail from one of my professors regarding my dissertation. I also found out some deadbeat loser somehow used my phone number, and I started getting daily phone calls from aggressive bill collectors (I had to spend an hour on the phone to get THAT straightened out). The weight dropped back down on my shoulders, and I felt old, tired, and stressed out again.

But at least I still have my memory of that wonderful week in New York, and I've already resolved to visit that city again someday soon. I'm not going to wait another thirteen years before I travel again, and I realized that everyone needs a vacation, even a neurotic workaholic like me.

What about you? What are some of the best parts of the vacations that you've taken? Do you ever wish you could just escape all the everyday problems in your life?

Neurotic Workaholic Takes a Vacation

It's Sunday night. By this time tomorrow I'll be in New York City, on the first vacation that I've ever taken on my own.

I'm excited about seeing New York for the first time. I've only ever seen glimpses of it in movies like When Harry Met Sally and TV shows like Law and Order and Sex and the City. And I've read about it in books, of course. So I'm curious to see what the "real" New York is like.

I bought a New York guidebook with fold-out maps for each neighborhood. I made a list in my journal of the places I'd like to visit and the things I'd like to do. I want to eat a hot dog in Central Park, and I want to eat ice cream in the Serendipity cafe. My hotel is in Chinatown, where I'm going to have dim sum. I already bought a ticket online to visit the Empire State Building. I tried to buy a ticket to the Statue of Liberty, but those tickets sold out very quickly. I also bought an inexpensive ticket to see one of my favorite actresses, Julia Stiles, perform in a play called Phoenix.

My flight arrives in New York on Monday afternoon. I go back to Chicago on Friday. I'll drop off my things at my hotel and immediately go back out and walk around Chinatown. Then I'll go to Times Square so that I can see it all lit up at night. I plan to wake up early every day and explore as many neighborhoods as I can. And of course, I'll be careful; all these years in Chicago taught me how to play it safe.

The thing I'm most nervous about, though, is actually letting myself relax on vacation. Like I said, I've never taken a vacation on my own before, though I always wanted to travel. I spent the last decade working two or three jobs at the same time and the majority of that decade in grad school. Relaxing was not an option for me. I couldn't even watch a TV show without doing something productive at the same time, like folding laundry, dusting furniture, or responding to students' e-mails.

I almost cancelled my trip to New York because I kept thinking of all the things I have to do right now. I'm supposed to be revising chapters of my dissertation. I'm going on the job market this year, and several of my professors were kind enough to agree to write recommendation letters for me. But they want me to show them my application letter, a chapter from my dissertation, and a summary of the dissertation as a whole, as well as my curriculum vitae. I have to send them all that stuff very soon, which means that this week in New York will put me about a week behind in my work.

But for once in my life, I'm going to put my work on the back burner. I put work first for so many years, and I turned into a neurotic workaholic as a result. Maybe this week, I'll actually be able to sleep without thinking of all the things I didn't get done that day or that I need to do the next day.

Relaxing isn't difficult for a lot of people, but it is for me because it felt like I wasn't allowed to relax for so long. When I worked in retail, the managers would get mad at us if they saw us stand around and do nothing for more than a minute at a time (though the managers felt free to stand around and chat with each other or their friends for as long as they wanted). So I grew accustomed to a steady work pace and rarely slowed down.

It made me edgy when I wasn't doing anything. I never even liked sleeping late, because it felt like I was wasting time on sleep that I could spend on my work.

This vacation won't change me from a neurotic workaholic into a laid-back slacker, and I wouldn't want it to anyway. But for this week at least, it'll be a relief to NOT be a neurotic workaholic.

What about you? Is it difficult for you to take time off or to relax? Do you feel guilty when you take a vacation? If so, how do you deal with it?


Side note: I'm not bringing my laptop to New York, so if you leave a comment on my blog this week I won't be able to answer it until I get back this upcoming weekend. But I will answer it; I promise. And I'll comment on your blogs when I get back too.

New York, Here I Come!

In less than two months I'm going to do what, to me, used to be the unthinkable: take a vacation. I used to think that I'd rather be trapped in an elevator with Justin Bieber and Honey Boo Boo's entire family than go on a vacation. Even when I watch TV, I can't relax; I just keep thinking about all the work that I still have to do. I didn't think I'd be able to deal with several days off, because I rarely take even just one day off.

The last time I did any real traveling was when I participated in a study abroad program in Spain; that was thirteen years ago, when I was twenty. Most of my classmates slept or sunbathed all day and then went barhopping at night with American tourists. I walked up and down the streets of the city I lived in, ate tapas at Spanish bars, visited Barcelona and Bilbao, went to museums, talked to Spaniards (who were amused by my clumsy attempts at Spanish), almost converted to a new religion before I finally realized what they were talking about (I'm not making that up), and wrote down everything I saw and experienced in my journal. I resolved that when I got older, I'd continue traveling and see the world.

I didn't. Instead I got my master's degree and started teaching high school students, half of whom cursed me out or started fights in class; the other half showed me poems and rap lyrics they wrote and confided in me about their problems with other students and their families.

I went on to teach college students during the day, where I had to deal with students who acted like Kim Kardashian had just been elected president when I gave them B's. I worked in a bookstore and a clothing store at night. I had the money to travel, but I didn't have the time.

I traveled to Kentucky to review AP literature exams. I traveled to New Orleans and St. Louis for weddings. I went to my parents' home in another state twice a year; lately I've had to go there more often to help them with personal issues, and I even had to give up my spring break one year for them. But I haven't gone anywhere that was just for me. 

Now I'm in my thirties and I think back to that twenty-year-old girl I used to be, the one who didn't work all the time and was eager to soak up as much of life as she could. I stopped being that person several years and several jobs ago. I think that working two or three jobs, seven days a week, for so long drained me and turned me into a neurotic workaholic.

Last year when I was going to my parents' house to take care of their dogs so that they could go on a vacation, I thought about how unfair it was that I never got to go on my own vacations. And then I thought, what's stopping me now? I have the money and I have the time. So why not go?

I chose New York because I've read so many books and seen so many TV shows and movies that are set in New York. I also heard that you don't need a car to get around the city, which is good because I usually don't stop shrieking until I take my hands off the steering wheel.

So I finally booked a trip to New York for the end of August. I reserved a room for four nights in Chinatown, partly because it's on my list of places I want to see. I also want to see Times Square, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and that Serendipity cafe from that John Cusack movie. I want to eat New York style pizza (though I still think Chicago-style pizza is the best), buy an "I Heart New York" T-shirt and be the stereotypical New York tourist. I also kind of want to dance on that giant keyboard in Fao Schwartz like Tom Hanks did in Big. I'm not bringing any work with me, and yet somehow I think I'll be able to relax. I can't wait.

What about you? What's your dream vacation?