The Sunshine State

The guy in the seat ahead of me coughed loudly and then sneezed, causing his chair to jerk wildly into my own space. The visceral hatred seething off of me probably could have melted steel, but I figured I would spare his life because I didn't want to deal with the repercussions of murdering someone just because they sneezed and their airline chair knocked into my tray in my own little cramped space on the plane. I took a deep breath and thought about happier, warmer places that I would be landing into in just a few short hours.

Going to Florida is one of the highlights of my childhood. My family has multiple branches growing in the sunshine state, and as a result Mom, Dad, Sister and I (in several different combinations of those four people) would trek down to the Sub-tropical Not-Really-Sure-It-Can-Be-Called-The-South State to visit family and escape the New York Blah's that can attack in the winter (or hell, even the summer for that matter).

The amazing thing about getting out of New York was getting out. I felt like the tide of people was, at any minute, about to wash me away into a nasty, seething asshole of a New Yorker that tourists only tell tales of in hushed whispers around a dinner table of trusted individuals. I took the MTA to get to LaGuardia Airport. I live in Queens. It only makes sense to take the train and the bus, it's really not a long journey. That is: unless the entire city decides that they need to cram on to the same train car, the same bus and then the same damn security line.

After arriving at the airport I was greeted with the line from Hell. I am not exaggerating when I say that there must have easily been about 200 people ahead of me. My asshole New Yorker reared her ugly head. "Oh, this is greeeeeat. I LOVE waiting on lines!" I went to an agent holding and directing the flow of cattle-I mean people- and asked in my most honeyed voice where the end of the line started. The dead-eyed airline employee who, long ago stopped seeing people- only bags of human effluence, pointed and mumbled something completely incoherent and useless. I followed her gesticulation and, off on the horizon, saw the line's beginning. Balls.

It always amazes me that there is a place, in America, where one has to undress, get prodded, poked and then berated all for the pleasure of coughing up hundreds of dollars to fly on a cramped Aluminum vessel which will drop you off in another part of the planet, were potentially more people will prod, poke and inspect you. Flying sucks. Travel is awesome. So, What can I do? I put on my Evil New Yorker face and hope no one tries to screw with me any more than anyone else.

I guess I understand why New Yorkers have a reputation for being Jerks. We have the airline's craziness ALL THE TIME, everywhere. New York City is like one big Airline system. What a pleasure to leave for a few days. Because, once I get back, it won't seem so bad. I really do love that city, and the people who live there, ultimately. But, for the next few days Florida will be my home away from home. Whew!

The End.

I hung up the phone and lay back on my bed, thinking about my life as a movie. This would be the part where the sad, yet inspirational music plays as the camera slowly moves in to frame my face. I'm staring up at the ceiling, ooh, dramatic.

I replayed the scene from the night before in my head again: There I am, sitting on the platform for the N train at 1:45am. It's cold, but I've got my big brown winter jacket on. The only other things on the platform is a man coughing in the distance and a pile of fresh vomit. I sank into the bench and waited for the train to take me home. I had left a party to come out to Queens and meet Dominos. No such luck. After inviting me to come, he fell asleep and didn't answer my call or text. It didn't take a lot of sleuthing to figure out he must have passed out. Great.

The wind was bitter, so I didn't feel like I had to be. I just sat there and my mind was very made up: Fuck this guy. I've gotten all I can get from him. I don't have to forgive him (Like I've done for other guys in the past) and I don't have to see him again. I don't owe him anything. The "N" train pulled in and I got on and went home.

It's a curious coincidence, however, that 2 years ago, almost to the day, My ex and I broke up. We'd dated on and off for about 4 years, and the knock down drag out of a break up culminated in a somewhat anti-climactic phone call where I stammered and stuttered that I didn't think we were right for each other. The conversation I had with Dominos felt very similar in many ways, expect it was "Natalie Breaking Things Off on a Phone: 2.0" I felt clear in what I wanted to say and I felt honest. BOOM. Thankyouverymuch, have a nice life. I had just told Dominos that I deserve better. Really. I said the word "deserve." I'm learning to speak the language of Natalie. How exciting!

The slow inspirational music changes to a flashy 80's throwback and the lead gets off of her bed, walks into the living room and in a montage of slow-mo happiness all the boys (who had been in the living room the whole time, and prior to the phone call, told her that this guy had to go) in the house give her high fives and "way-to-go's!" and "Fuck that guy!" The movie ends with the girl smiling and eating some Oreo cookies with the fellas as everything settles back down. The lead says: "Yeah, you guys are right! I shouldn't put up with bad chain store pizza!"

Everyone laughs and the credits role. The End.

Quiet

The train screeched to a halt in the tunnel between Manhattan and Queens.

A train stopping in the middle of the night in the middle of the tunnel in the middle of a work week is no unusual thing. Mysterious stops between stations are a status quo on the 7 train. The interesting thing about this stop was that the particular car I was in lost power. The vent fans went off, the regular lights shut off and all that was left was the emergency lights, throwing their eerie iridescent glow over the faces of the train car I was in.

I was busy playing a riveting game of Plants vs. Zombies, but the sudden silence made me look up. There was no noise except the breathing of the other people in the car with me. I looked at the quiet, patient faces of the New Yorkers sharing my subway. The silence seemed to stretch on and on as the stopped train waited for some unknown signal to let us move again. I felt deeply uncomfortable. No noise, except the breathing of the people in this car? Is something wrong? Where is the clack-clack of the tracks? The droning of the Air Conditioner? The screech of wheels? I felt myself wanting to giggle from the discomfort. This is so silly. I'm getting anxious over some quiet? Am I really that much of a New Yorker that silence can make me look up from my game and focus on what is going on around me?

A guy listening to his headphones, which now seemed like they were blasting, started to dance. I could hear his every shuffle. He swung his hands through the air, and bobbed his head in time to the rhythm. I watched him dance. Then focused my gaze to the two sleeping lovers across the car from me. They had been sleeping a moment ago, but the silence woke them up. They looked amused by the whole thing. Others looked like nothing was different, some people were so lost in thought I wondered if they even noticed that the train had stopped. I felt sad watching them. What was on their minds that weighed so heavily that complete silence is not loud enough to break that spell? I thought back to a 365 days ago... where I was emotionally. That might have been me, a year ago. I was so lost in thought thinking about my ex that maybe I might not have even noticed New York's movement, pausing for a moment to catch its breath.

Just as suddenly as the noise went off, the train and sounds of travel switched back on and we lurched forward. The silent moment was gone. I bowed my head back to my game, but couldn't help but smile. That was so quietly beautiful. I liked hearing the people around me breathe. There was something wonderful in the inhale and exhale of the strangers in my car, that I was reminded of the comfort drawn from breath, whether my own in the silence of my room, or listening to someone I care about breathe. Breath is life. Breath is constant, always there adding its own small sound waves to the cacophony of noise that blasts our ear drums every day, even when the train and the vents and the noise and bustle and the movement of this busy busy city aren't always there.

Hello, 2012.

Resolutions

I guess it's the time to make resolutions you don't intend to keep past February.

Last night I sat up in bed and wrote out a list of things I wanted to accomplish this year. Above my head is a big white board hanging on my wall, it's filled with brightly colored pieces of paper with a bunch of goals that I've written throughout the year on them. If an outside observer were to walk to the foot of my bed and snap a shot, I'd say it'd be a study in irony. What makes January 4th so damn special for writing new versions of the same goals hanging over my head?

What's a resolution, anyway?

I resolve to... what? To... lose weight? To fall in love? To Travel? To like the color Purple more because it goes great with my eyes? As I was writing all these bullet points I couldn't help but feel pretty uninspired. Laaaaaammmee goals. What do they really mean? Honestly: Where my life is right now is a goal I made years ago that I've met. Yay me! But: it took much longer than twelve measly months to accomplish.

One of my best friends and I walked all over downtown Manhattan tonight. We talked about previous and current partners. We talked about our mutual friends and the crazy shit our families have done. We even talked about what it means to (currently) be an actor in New York City at the age of 24/5. One thing we both thoroughly agreed on was: goals don't accomplish themselves in weeks and months. Long term ones, anyway. Sure, one can lose weight in three weeks, but a long term goal of changing a lifestyle, going to the gym more, drinking less and eating better? That takes a lot of time and dedication that I don't think can fully be realized in a year. I've spent my whole life thinking in terms of days and weeks, and now I have an entire existence on this Earth to think of. That means expanding the brain to think more in terms of Months and Years. Simultaneously that is beautiful and scary.

But, as for my resolutions, (because tradition is tradition, and I've been writing resolutions since I learned to write) I've gotten a few down that I think are accomplishable between now and December 31st, 2012. One of them is to keep this blog stocked with written entries. Go the distance. I toyed with the idea of writing everyday, but then thought better of that. So, I compromised, I resolve to try and write at least two entries a week. That means 104 entries by the end of the year. Whew! That's a pretty decent amount of written work! I'm looking forward to it.

Oh... And Domino's texted me tonight. Uh oh.

The Double Entendre

I've eaten my fair share of Domino's pizza.

In College, my friends and I would stay up to the wee hours of the morning sitting in someone's living room, smoking a bowl and eating 5 dollar pizza pies covered in pepperoni or jalepenos or mushrooms. I always considered myself somewhat of a pizza snob, but what else could one possibly hope to get when it's 11:30pm and all else is closed except the Dominos? So: the somewhat steamy, usually overcooked, badly hashed out execution of our preferred pizza toppings would show up at our door with a rather pissed looking delivery boy and my friends and I would eat until we were stuffed.

But, that type of culinary sacrifice was something I left behind to be locked in the sepia tones of college memories. However: life has an Ironic way of repeating itself.

I can't remember which comedian I heard describe sex like Pizza. The gist of what the joke was was that even if the sex is terrible: Hey, it's still sex, right? just like Pizza. Pizza is still pizza. To which a friend of mine joking acknowledged: "Yeah, but sometimes you can still get food poisoning from pizza, too." Touché.

Let's say that my life the last few weeks has been a college feeding frenzy of "Dominos pizza"...

Granted: I've certainly had some of the world's best pizza. (No double meaning here) In Florence, my sister would march me across the city to go to a tiny restaurant where an award winning chef would send out personal masterpieces of italian style pizzas. In New York City, I've sampled some of the freshest steaming pies, covered in the pride of a local displaying their prowess in the greatest city on earth. Hell: Even in Louisville, KY I had some damn fine flaky, crusty, greasy, delicious slices of good, cheap pizza. I thought the days of Dominos at midnight were behind me.

I guess, however, in life: when all else is closed, you're in a room full of broke, hungry college students... And one looks around at the situation before them: Dominos can be a pretty tempting option. Even for aficionados of Pizza.

I gorged a couple of times the last few weeks. Now I'm pretty satiated. And, I don't need to eat more. Time to go back to the Zagat rated "Pizza" choices. Except now I'm not the desperately hungry ruffian I was a few weeks ago. I definitely don't need to go back to the menu and sample the "Chef Specials" that were being cooked up for me by OKCupid and Match.com. Ew. Food poisoning...

Now, Hypothetically, it's 8pm on a Friday night and I am ready to go to a 5 star dinner of the finest pie I can find. I'm not desperate for a meal. More in the market for an experience of the senses. What a great place to be. See ya later, Dominos.