First thing's first. If you ever see me consuming a caffeinated beverage (even mildly caffeinated) after 430pm, kindly knock the drink out of my hand. Tonight was a brisk, windy evening in lower Manhattan, and on my walk back from the grocery store, I (of course) passed a Starbucks. From outside the slightly fogged window, I could see the little Christmas-y cups dancing with delight at the hope that I might venture in and take one of them home. I couldn't resist, so I went inside and ordered the only liquid sold in Starbucks that I enjoy: a grande non-fat no-foam chai. As always, I burned my tongue at the first taste of the sweet nectar, but I didn't let that stop me from sipping it all the way back to my apartment, and then throughout two episodes of The Sopranos, season 1. Yes, I like to nurse my drinks- even the non-alcoholic kind. Fast forward eight hours, and here I am, lying in bed, utterly unable to fall asleep. I have read chapter after chapter in my bedside book, hoping it will put me to sleep, but then I turn out the lights and all I can pay attention to is my heartbeat and the sounds coming from my cable box. Pathetic. Moral of the story: Starbucks is vicious. It lures you into its stores late at night, with the promise of peppermint and pumpkin spice, only to keep you from sleeping well, if at all. Then you awake the next morning, having slept for a good two hours, and desperately in need of some caffeine with which to jump start your day. So you head back there, and it starts all over again. If I didn't love capitalism so much, I'd hate it.
Moving on. If you have spent any time with me since I moved into Manhattan, you may have heard me complain about my next-door neighbor and his penchant for late night viewings of slasher movies in his apartment. Or, at least that's what it sounds like through my wall. During my first few weeks at my new residence, I would often hear muffled scary music and women screaming through the wall. This, as you can imagine, was a tad disconcerting. I also heard my neighbor during the day, usually talking on the phone, and usually about going out and using a lot of "dude" and "come on, man" and such. That led me to believe he was not some creepy forty year old man, but rather a creepy twenty-something, either unemployed or working from home. Well, I finally met my neighbor. In a building full of young people, where girls look you up and down before deciding whether to smile back at you in the elevator, and your "hello" and "have a good night" are met with half smiles or nods or absolutely nothing, it is a huge shock to the system when anyone strikes up a conversation. A few days ago, I was in the lobby waiting for the elevator. A young guy stood nearby, but did not look up when I walked over. When the door opened, he motioned for me to enter first. How gentlemanly. I thanked him and walked in and then asked him which floor. He said the number of the floor I live on. I said, "Oh, I guess we're neighbors." And he said "Why yes, I guess so. What's your name?" He asked if I had just moved in, and for some reason (probably as some sort of explanation for my being in the building midday on a weekday, clearly not in work clothes) I disclosed that I've been living here for months but I don't start work till the end of the month so I'm just chilling. He said he wasn't working right now either, that he'd be back at work next month. [Longest elevator ride ever.] We arrived at our floor, and the Gentleman stepped back as I exited first. I went to my door and as he walked past me to the door directly next to mine, he said, "We're neighbors, all right." I said, "Oh, you're next door, huh?" And he said, "Yeah, hope I'm not too loud," with a smile. I wanted so badly to say, "Well, actually, yes, you are. Especially at night. When you're watching horror movies at full volume while I'm trying to fall asleep." But I said, "Oh, it's all good." Who even says that?? So now that I've officially met my neighbor, I'm relieved to see he's a normal-ish young person, even if he likes to watch slasher movies at night. Oh, and one more thing. He plays wii fit during the day. I know the music from watching Brother play it all summer. I am tempted to one day go over and ask if I can play, too. But I think we need to have at least one more run-in at the elevator before that's acceptable behavior.
This week I did something I've been meaning to do since I moved back. I went to the gorgeous midtown New York City Public Library and acquired a library card. This place is amazing. I felt like a rockstar studying in Olin and Hugh & Hazel, but those libraries can't even begin to compare to this one. It's huge and imposing and inviting and embracing all at once. I think I could get lost for days in there and not even notice - or care. It's really too bad Carrie Bradshaw decided to try to get married at the New York Public Library. Because I would totally love to have my wedding there. But she ruined it for every New York girl. Now if I chose to have my wedding there (assuming they even allow weddings to take place inside and assuming my future Someone would be down for it, too), I'd be copying. Blast.
No comments:
Post a Comment