I’ve faced many uncomfortable scenarios since moving to New York (and I think I’ve done a good job of accurately documenting them), like the time a blind homeless man accidentally put his hand in my mouth on the 6 train, or when I was harassed by people on a correctional bus.
I’ve also had to accept the way that living here would fundamentally change my life: no car (and therefore no trunk to store outfits for post-work events), the loss of personal space, and—well this was to be expected—rodents. Now, I expected to see mice and roaches in New York City, but I didn’t anticipate that I’d be forking over the cash for their room and board. Le sigh.
But I’ve accepted these things (more or less) as part of living here, and with each passing oddity I simply add it to my what-a-weird-freaking-city list.
In just four months I’ll hit my 2-year anniversary with Manhattan, and out of all the annoying, totally inconvenient ways it’s cooked my personal, professional, and financial life a stinky stew of back-alley chaos, I’m OK with all of it. Except this:
Switching out my closet.
