I had a real New York day today. No, not like this:
I said real. More like this:
Followed by this:
Let's flash back to this morning. As someone battling depression, I have to say I did rather well this morning. I left the house today (an achievement in itself, it was touch and go there for a bit but the thought of endless Netflix was too bleak even for me). After getting up early - which, quite frankly, should be chalked up as a significant event where I'm concerned having not been a morning person ever in my entire life - exercising, and having a nice cup of coffee, I watched Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein on CNN while I was cashing in tickets for a decreasingly intellectual thought train which departed from "How passionate I used to be about the purpose of journalism" and then meandered to the end of the line, which was "How Roy Scheider would probably have been a better casting choice as Bob Woodward than Robert Redford". (Google it. Yeah, see what I mean?). After all of this effort, I even had a candle-lit shower in emulation of my ex-boyfriend's Norwegian bathroom setup, which I always thought was a serene way to start the day.
So I was high on the "self care" Scandi-hygge candle-lit thing, and then, (insert record screech), before I even ingested my daily compulsory second coffee, was unavoidably reminded of the brutal truth about someone I honestly, stupidly, naively thought was my soulmate before I learnt what narcissistic personality disorder is. With one callous remark, it was exactly like that montage (SPOILER ALERT) in The Sixth Sense where you rewind and discover that nothing was as you thought - in my case, that this guy had never once shown he actually cared about me at all. It was all smoke and mirrors. It was like I ran into a brick wall, or was trapped in an evil DeLorean that took me backwards when I thought I'd finally escaped the traps of a miserable parallel timeline.
I successfully bottled my tears. I took some deep breaths. I managed to get through a tough day at work. I managed to pick at my unsatisfactorily healthy lunch (hello, carbs? wherefore art thou, carbs? I'm so having pizza tonight, damn you grilled tuna and salad), I managed to evince some righteous outrage about some Trump article, and I managed to marvel at simple joys like an on-time train - subway this time, not Robert Redford-thought-train - the curiosity of a sweet blind dog, the realization I didn't forget my gloves, and a particularly interesting murder podcast. And then....
...I trekked along the grimy expanse of Marcy Ave to pick up my puppy from her doggy daycare group. Waiting at the lights, a car swerved, I swear on purpose, into the extensive body of water at the curb and launched a violent sheet of greasy, rat-corpse infested, probably poisonous and definitely garbage-chunked and ice-clogged water from my head to my toes. The water soaked into my lovely Danish coat and soaked into the lining of my boots. I smelt worse than my poor little dog.
Momentarily, I burst into tears. I was tired of trudging home in the rain alone. I was tired of being the one left behind. I was tired of being Elaine instead of George. There was only one thing to do. I headed to the wine shop and faked a smiley transaction. I had a chat with my neighbors....and then hurriedly unearthed frozen pizza from my freezer. It's not a healthy response, but this is my New York State Of Mind. I am currently enjoying both wine and pizza, and thinking that I may be smelly and lonely, but I'm lighting my Scandi candles and praying to some Nordic God (Chris Hemsworth, maybe?) that this will all make sense one day, and that New York curb-puddles don't carry permanent diseases.