It’s almost 3 am here in New York, and I can’t sleep, so I figured I’d jot down some thoughts. This never puts me to sleep, but at least I’ll get to do more with the time than say, scroll through my Facebook feed.
I don’t like starting posts when I don’t have a real point to make. I think it’s a control thing, really – it’s hard to just go with the flow when you write and see what develops. Same holds true for life sometimes, right? It’s hard to just set out without a plan, to wander, to be open to new experience when you don’t even know what those new experiences will be.
It’s been too long since I’ve stopped to take note of life, stopped to write. Life was slow and the days were free and easy before I started working again. I’m not complaining, just noting the difference between then and now. There was a sweet, surreal couple weeks where I made it my main ‘job’ in life to sit at a coffeeshop and recall the experiences of New York. It made no money, and I couldn’t do it forever, but man was it delectable.
On the flipside, I can now pay my rent without depleting my life savings. So, pros and cons.
It’s funny, when Flexa extended a job offer, part of me wanted to decline. Not due to my own self-doubt (though it was unmistakably present) but because, um, see, I’ve got some little side projects I’m working on that I don’t want to quit. You know, like this little jewelry biz on etsy, and uh, this blog thing where apparently I write about things I do on my time off work, and guys I meet.
You can see why this wasn’t mentioned in the interview.
I think there’s something in us though that recognizes those things that make us come alive, or feel like ourselves, or whatever you want to call it…some sort of stabilizing mechanism that notices when you’ve neglected those enriching parts of life and draws you back to them. That’s my theory of what’s been happening as of late. I’ve been swamped with the new job, both because it’s new and because it’s a busy start-up, and as a result, I haven’t put the time in for the more creative pursuits in life. And there’s this wonderful hunger that develops, this hunger to get back to things more creative. Have you been there? I know I’m not describing it perfectly, but maybe it’s a little familiar. It’s that feeling of needing to return to yourself.
I’m going to finish writing about this time away. I’m not sure how, but it just feels like something I need to do. Even if no one follows along. Sometimes you just need…closure? When I left off, I was recounting time in New York, and now I’m back for exactly two weeks. Seemingly the perfect time to wrap things up. I guess that means it’s time to revisit the dating scene here. Where we’d last left off, there was this intriguing+soulful Jewish farmer, and I figured that if there was gonna be a guy of New York, it’d be him. Then the next four days happened.
Before meeting the Farmer, I’d also happened upon a
Writer, Editor Actor. Scanning through his list of interests, it didn’t seem like we had a ton in common… save a few crucial items. Number one, peanut butter. Number two, nerddom. Now, granted – I’m a fairly low-level nerd at least from a knowledge standpoint. As in, I know Joss Whedon is like, a really big deal, but between Firefly and Serenity I always forget which was the 1-season TV show and which was the movie. I haven’t seen either.
I think I’ve just hung out around more well-versed nerds, and I remember a lot of odd details. I have a few token phrases/characters I’ll reference to seem like I know what’s up. Save me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope. That type of thing. But I love engaging with nerd culture, because, well, it’s kind of like this odd secret club with its own language and references and mores, and I love the idea of being able to talk the talk enough to befriend members of this group. In my experience, they tend to be a welcoming bunch. To a point. I think they know that I’ll never have their nerd chops, so I’m probably never going to be much of a nerd threat.
The point of all this? When I hear the Actor’s into general nerddom, I think: I could probably win this guy over.
He’d reached out a time or two and seemed like he was sniffing out the possibility of getting together this weekend (What are you up to this weekend?). Impatient, and not wanting to play the cat and mouse game of making plans, I jumped right in. Hey _______! This weekend I’m hanging out with my brother while he’s still on spring break…but I too am a peanut butter lover, so if you ever feel like grabbing a peanut butter-related snack with a random girl who will be gone in a couple weeks, hit me up! 🙂
We made plans (turns out there’s a little spot by Washington Square Park called Peanut Butter & Co), then I met the Farmer, then I started getting a little down about meeting guys in New York when I was only going home in a month anyway – what was the point in getting to know, or even getting interested in any of them? Surely it would go nowhere, mean nothing, and if anything, perhaps be a taunting reminder that back in my normal life, I was more or less on my own.
I strongly considered canceling. After all, our greatest common interest was peanut butter, for crying out loud – surely this wasn’t going to be an amazing time for either of us.
Strongly advised not to cancel (“The night before!? That’s pretty cold, Megan”) I got ready slowly, running behind, walked to the subway slowly – all as if in protest of the day I’d created for myself. I know, immature. But then, the oddest thing happened. I’m walking past the police station when this cop says, “hey, I like your hair!”
My momentum keeps me walking a few more paces and then I have to turn around. I’m sorry? Thank you? There are two officers there, and one quickly introduces me to his friend, The Hair Caller. I swear to you, he looks like he is SIXTEEN. I want to comment on this but I figure it’s probably insulting. We chat, probably the longest I’ve ever talked to an officer who hasn’t pulled me over for a traffic violation. Maybe six minutes. I have to capture this funny moment, just talking to the local police officer who liked my hair (?) and ask to take a picture. Officer 2, the wingman, suggests we take one together. 16 year old officer asks me to send it to him and gives me his number. 555-5576. 76! Hey, that’s my favorite number! “I guess it’s just fate then” he smiles, in a sweet, still-sixteen year old way. It’s such a delightful, odd encounter, and I can’t help but walk away chuckling and with a weird little spring in my step.
Now, I’m the type to read into pretty much everything, to think there’s deeper meaning and purpose to most stuff we touch and experience in life. And this morning was no different. With one funny little exchange with the local Harlem police officers, I’d been knocked out of my glum little mood and was back to chipper-on-Sabbatical self —-
and that, it seems, made all the difference in the day ahead, and the rest of my time in New York…and I just don’t think that’s an accident. 🙂