kaet@rachacha.com
April 13, 2007

"You look exhausted," said the security guard at the door of B&H Warehouse in midtown, yesterday. I was picking up Polaroid film after ten days of not being able to for Passover. I nodded in agreement: I was exhausted. I had been out two nights in a row and slept a total of eight hours within the past two days. I'm getting used to it though; the adaptation of the New York grind is the hardest and longest part to truly being a New Yorker, it's why I don't want to go anywhere outside of the surrounding area (home to Rochester). My friend Sean, who works the door at Invite Them Up, says it's a year of hell and then it will be fine when you get through that. It's been two months, and I'm not sure I can take eight more at the rate I am going at, but I feel like I'm finally adjusting to this place.

My sense of style before I came here was... at the very least, bleak. I'm not fashion savvy, I wear ripped jeans with tights underneath, shirts that look unflattering and a beaten up pair of purple Uggs that my roommate Becca will not let me the leave the house in. In fact, I get the evil eye if I am wearing something that is not Becca-approved. Dates, trips to Brooklyn, ventures to midtown for Polaroid film or even grocery shopping at 3 o'clock in the morning... it's all the same, every outfit I wear normally in Rochester is scrutinized by the eyes of an artist who's mind is focused on what is in season (which is usually correct and on, and she has a great eye). It's New York City, and I'm reminded that I look like a bag lady when I wear my two tone orange and pink converse shoes (that I love). She's right though, as much as I hate the scrutiny of my outfit, this is New York and in this city you need big girl clothes and good shoes... ones that you can walk several blocks in (so I learned when I went to see Miranda last July, as I walked up and down subway stairs).

The train is another thing I'm finally adapting to. At first, all wide eyed and excited about the people watching and diversity amongst them that I had not had in what I now consider a very small town in comparison, is now that ten minute blur to work where I either fall asleep or forget what stop I'm at, so early in the morning. Falling asleep on the train, while originally frowned upon, is widely accepted. As long as you're not drooling on the person, slumped over their Village Voice, its fine. But God forbid, you put your feet up on the seat or someone sassy will give you attitude. The train is the travelin' man's coffeeshop where you just run into people that you're acquainted with. What train you ride often denotes the type of tone your ride will be like throughout the commute. The A is filled with miserable people, while the 1 is filled with generally happy people (especially when you ride it at night, like me). The L is filled with hipsters, and any Queens bound train is usually filled with just your everyday person. You lose the novelty of it all, but you still notice those little things.

My other roommate, Sarah, whose presence I typically frequent, and I were walking to the diner two blocks away from our apartment for a reuben and a milkshake, one night, when we were cut off by cyclist. Neither of us flinched. "I like how we both didn't flinch when we almost got swiped, Sarah," I said. "You must be becoming a true New Yorker, if you notice very little in front of you anymore," Sarah replied. All the people watching, I relished by coming to such a melting pot of a city, was now gone. My anxiety heightened by the proximity I'm always within of people, somehow working itself out because somehow, some way I had to learn to deal with it, to tune it out. I'm zoning out at work, latte after latte, cappuccino after cappuccino. I barely actually write anymore except for this column, but I blame that on 40's of Corona, a pack of magnum condoms and long subway rides, but that's another story for another time.

Life in the big city is exhausting, it takes a while to adjust - to get into the flow of things and understand what it truly means to be a New Yorker. Some people come here with high hopes; bright lights, big city. I came here to write, which I'm barely doing right now. I was in a New York state of mind, with little town blues and I achieved what people said was the impossible for a lot of people... moving and living here, which still to this day hasn't hit me (maybe it's because I don't have a television, who knows). No one is angry here, just aggressive. If you allow yourself to be pushed around, you'll get your ass kicked; you push back, you slowly earn some respect. I'm not a changed person, just a little hardened, a little overtired and just trying to get by. Oh, and I haven't had to chase down a mugger yet. Beat that Rochester!