Monday, January 04, 2010

We Playing Naked Twister Back in My Hotel

I like the cold. I’m saying this while sitting inside and still wearing my winter jacket, with suspected frostbite on the tips of two of my fingers given that they have remained noticeably numb despite being indoors for hours now, and having walked to the train this morning with my earphones on and my hood up and still feeling like some sadistic Claire’s employee was piercing my lobes with icicles. It’s not that I like feeling like a frozen hunk of hamburger. But I could never live in a place that didn’t get cold like this for at least a few months.

Through the kindness of Brad and Christian I got ring in the new year in Miami where, when the clock read midnight, the thermometer read 77, even after sundown, even on a balcony sixteen floors up and overlooking the ocean. When I say that this trip was magical, I mean it literally. Dictionary.com defines magical as “produced by or as if by magic” or “mysteriously enchanting.” To have my broke ass jet-setted to Miami for three days and three nights is totally fucking mysteriously enchanting. When one also considers that I was VIP-tabled and private cabana-ed and fed such a large quantity of free food and drinks so as to call to mind the edible forest and chocolate river in Willy Wonka’s factory, “magical” barely fits the bill.

There’s so little you can do to thank friends who have the means to transport you physically around the country, not to mention psychologically light years away from your real life. There was one moment on New Year’s Eve when I was three quarters through my purse whiskey (which truly is a girl’s best friend—forget that diamond shit) and dancing in a crowd behind a velvet rope and a beefcakey bouncer to cheesy remixes of Britney Spears songs played for the second or third time that night. I wound up dancing with some guy who kept spinning me around and taking pictures of us on his phone and complimenting my outfit, and as the room whizzed past my eyeballs I had the urge to wrestle the microphone from the DJ and yell “I AM A MEDICAL BOOK EDITOR! I EDIT MEDICAL BOOKS!” over and over. My dance partner, as it turned out, is on TV. I, as previously mentioned, edit medical books. There is no reason for me ever to be where I was, living a life that I could never in a billion years even think about affording, and wearing a tutu in public without question. Well, mostly without question. There were a few honks and someone called me Carrie Bradshaw.

I’ve never been in such a warm city for the holidays. Palm trees full of Christmas lights were weird, but nice. Weird in the same way that seeing the dubbed version of Ghostbusters on Telemundo is weird. I’ve also never lived it up in quite such a fashion. It’s one thing to drink on a roof, but it’s quite another to have a private rooftop lounge with a personal waiter who talks to you about his racing Chihuahua. Even the dog in this scenario is exceptional—one of the fastest Chihuahuas, in fact, in the entire state of Florida. Whose dream isn’t it to escape wind chill that will actually make your nipples ache and end up surrounded by rich guys in suits just itching ply anything even vaguely resembling a woman with drinks?

As it turns out, me. I loved every minute of my Miami vacation, but by the time I got on the plane bound for LaGuardia I was dying for the kind of cold that slaps your face red the moment you step outside, and for the kind of guy who might never own a suit, with whom I’ll gladly dance in flannel until last call, at which time I will purchase my own High Life. Maybe two. I couldn’t have been any luckier to have brunch delivered to a sunny cabana by the pool on Friday, but I couldn’t have felt any more at home having a friendly fist fight to old Blink 182 in a Bushwick loft near dawn on Saturday night.

To get kind of Empire State of Mind here for a second, I guess that’s the thing about New York. When it’s 7 degrees with wind chill and I’m spending my last $15 until payday and my rent for a shitty apartment is three times what it would be anywhere else in the country and I’m walking the frigid blocks to a bar that might suck, but might not, hopefully not, and I wonder why I do this to myself when there are cheap places to live where it never gets cold, the answer is: because I wouldn’t feel like I made sense anywhere else.

1 Comments:

Blogger Sarah B. said...

That last paragraph made me homesick for Brooklyn.

1:42 PM  

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