When I first moved to New York, I was so overwhelmed with the sheer opportunity of going out that on more than one occasion I just collapsed into a puddle of tears. I would become exhausted by journeying out to this lecture or that reading or this party or that show every night. My mother said to me some words I never forgot: “New York is always going to be here.” As in, not everyone is going out every night. Sometimes it’s okay to stay home and just exist like a person, like they do in places that aren’t New York. But, I don’t know, I never wanted to be a person, I wanted to be a New Yorker. I wanted to take advantage of everything the city had to offer, otherwise what was the fucking point? As Lady Bunny once said, we could live in mansions in Montana. But then we’d have to live in Montana. No shade to Montana, I’m sure it’s lovely, and I hear great things about Missoula. But it’s not New York.
There are weeks when I am in full New York mode, with something on the calendar every night. There are weeks when I am a couch puddle person who just can’t, and I shovel brown rice and turkey meatballs into my face while watching New Girl reruns yet again. There are weeks where I am both. As I look into my planner from the last week, I don’t have to wonder why I’m tired–though I do have to wonder why, on a Saturday where I have nothing planned, I sat down to do *checks notes* more work. Even when we are being people, we are always New Yorkers.
All the same, I don’t go out because I think I should, but because I want to. To have experiences, to visit the playground that the city is. And yes, sometimes that’s for work or for networking, but I usually end up happy I went out anyway. I remember sitting at home in the suburbs waiting for my life to start, and in the last 15 years I have been fighting against those moments with a vengeance.
I will go to the opera with Steven Jude. We will sit at the bar at Cafe Fiorello and share an antipasto plate. I will marvel at the curving staircases inside the Metropolitan Opera, wondering to myself how it’s possible I was able to make it here when it’s all I wanted as a teenager. We will sip prosecco. Audra McDonald will walk by with Danny Burstein. Steven Jude will point out the composer and director of the opera. I will wear one of the chiffon blouses my grandmother made that’s covered in tiger print, with black slacks and heels and that coat my mother got me because you need to have something nice to wear to the theatre, Elyssa. I will smooth back my hair and twist it into a knot with a bright red hair stick that matches my lipstick.
I will go to a perfume release party at a chic hotel in Soho where about 10 years ago I met a magazine editor I admired but who was not really interested in speaking with me. I will smell all the perfumes, some of which retail for nearly $1000. I will wonder why perfume costs that much money. There will be ballet dancers and tiny tuna tartare cones and custom lemon cocktails. The new perfume will smell like a farmer’s market.
I will go to Jo’s panel on Burlesque as Rebellion at the Tompkins Square Library, then meet up with James who is in town from Texas. I will pick up a new body wash at Bigelow Chemist, because I don’t often splurge on goods for myself but will lean into the joys of a luxe shower gel once every few months when I need one. We will end up walking all the way from the West Village to midtown, and my feet will be so tired when I get home I won’t stand up for a long time the next day.
I will see the goddess herself Vaginal Davis speak at a Press Preview for her new exhibition at MoMA PS1. Her voice will be higher than I expect but she will be wearing a gorgeous printed caftan and I will have expected nothing less. The zines of hers I’ve been reading about my entire life will be on view, as will a library she has created with titles like Sex Lizard and Your Pussy Killed My Husband.
I will see drag artists at Untitled Art Star fill the stage with glorious glitters and props and costumes and neons, telling new stories about drag’s possibilities with every swipe of makeup or flash of a spotlight.
On each occasion I will dress. Paisley denim jeans. My mother’s turquoise poncho from visiting our family in Mexico in the 1960s. The Isabella Fiore terracotta t-strap wedges that have been through the war, that I somehow used to wear out all day and not just change into from flats I carried in my handbag. Though on some occasions it will be a challenge for me to even swipe on some lipstick and tuck a shoe that’s not a loafer onto my feet.
And then I will come home and Chris will have ordered a slice of birthday cake for me, not because it’s my birthday but because I was sad and hungry. The cats will sit with us in the living room. We’ll watch New Girl again until I inevitably pass out, he tries to get me to go to bed and I shout “NO!” and then pass out on the couch some more and then finally go to bed after he says “Honey…”
In my lowest moments, I will try to remember this is the life I always wanted, that even in the darkness there are bright spots, opportunities for joy. Many of which I have created for myself. But this is why any of us move to New York, I think. To create the lives we wanted when we were suburban teenagers aching to be on the other side of the window, trekking through the night, staring at a very different kind of skyline.