Is This Part of Christmas in July?

I mentioned some time ago that my employer is on a health kick. They’ve been on an eco kick even longer. They reduce their footprint; they develop resource-saving technologies; they turn off unnecessary lights. Why then, for the love of all that’s holy, is my office colder in August than it is in February?

This isn’t a trick question; I’m not located below the equator. And it’s not unique to this building. Every commercial structure I go in this time of year blasts me with air that feels fresh from the arctic. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate Freon as much as the next girl. But, when the temperature inside makes my nose run, there’s something wrong.

I mentioned this to an angry old man that I work with, and he informed me that I should wear a sweater. Really? The daytime temperature here hasn’t been below 85 in weeks, yet I’m supposed to bundle up?

Survey says? Yes. Here I sit, wearing a hoodie over my lovely summer dress, to prevent the frostbite that would inevitably settle in otherwise. I can hardly wait for the snow to start falling so I can get warm.

A Double Standard

It is a law universally accepted that when it comes to female footwear, there is an inverse proportional relationship between cuteness and comfort. I haven’t gathered any formal data, but it seems to me that a whole bunch of my female commuting compatriots travel in flip-flops, sneakers, and ballet flats. I imagine that many of them pull a Mr. Rogers and change their shoes once they arrive at work, just like I do.

I hardly even notice what anyone is wearing on their feet. But this morning I noticed something, and then realized that I am a horrible hypocrite. There was a man standing on the train platform wearing a button-down shirt and nice slacks, and holding a briefcase. He was also wearing plastic flip-flops. And it was oh so wrong. I wear flip-flops with my dress clothes because the shoes that actually look appropriate with my work attire make it impossible for me to walk to the subway without some degree of pain. I’ve been under the (mistaken?) impression that men’s shoes proposed no such problem. Really, if I could wear loafers everyday, I wouldn’t need to have a drawer full of shoes at my desk. Am I just a hypocrite?

Too Much of a Good Thing

I like to think that I’m pretty adaptable. If I hadn’t been before all this moving nonsense, I certainly am now. My first night in New York I didn’t sleep very soundly. I was aware of the hum the fridge makes, the whir of the air, the light from the clock on the stove, and the cacophony from the street. Within a few nights I was blissfully unaware of all of these.

I spent the first week of August in Maine. Sunday night was my first night back in my new home. And I found myself in a re-run of my first night here. Apparently my sleeping self adapted to Maine, forgetting that I wasn’t staying all that long.

Branching Out

Since I’m so good at keeping this blog updated (insert sarcasm emoticon here), I’ve started contributing to another blog too. I’m scheduled to appear once every three weeks, and since other people are relying on me, I’ll actually stick to that schedule. Feel free to hop over and check it out.

A Delight for the Senses

When I think of all the ways the city ignites my senses, I reflect on sights and sounds and energy. Rarely did I think of smells. Yet in many ways, the smells are what I’ve noticed the most these last few weeks.

There’s the scent of the street, which is either bad or neutral, never good. Add up the number of dogs that live in a neighborhood, then multiply that by the number of times they get walked each day, then add the cosine of the gross tonnage of refuse that is awaiting pickup and multiple that all by the square root of the average daily temperature. No one’s doing anything wrong per se, but sometimes it’s just not sniffy-delicious. On the upside, I’ve found that these odors rarely permeate more than half a block at a time.

The Metro North train has a distinctive scent all its own. Some combination of overheated brakes, old vinyl seats, and older spilled beverages. Sadly, I’ve arrived home more than once to discover that my clothing smells just like the vinyl of those seats.

And finally, there’s the scent of home. Or rather, almost home. Every night when I step outside the train station in Harlem, the smell of fast food fried chicken hits me, and my nose knows I’m almost home. All I have left to do is walk one block to the subway, ride the express one stop, then walk home. How sad is it that fried chicken has become my homing beacon?

Never is Here Again

I say way too many famous last words. I speak in hyperbole and I like it. Other than the amount of crow I have to eat. The best trick I’ve discovered for that is simply not admitting that I was wrong. No wrong, no crow.

Shortly before I moved to the city, someone mentioned that I should get my groceries delivered. I quickly shot down that idea. I love going to the market. I find it relaxing. (Sadly, this is true. I’m a born domestic.) I’ll have no problem popping into the store every other day for a few things.

Yesterday (aka day 13 in the new place), I placed my first online grocery order. I could blame this turnaround on any number of things. The most obvious is that my favorite credit card made me an offer I really couldn’t refuse. Another contributing factor is my excessive love of ginger ale. Nothing wrong with that love in and of itself, but I’ve just started to realize how heavy that nectar is. The other thing I’ve noticed is that the most convenient time for me to stop in the store is on my way home from work. Sounds brilliant, right? Until you realize that the aisles in these stores aren’t even wide enough for full-sized shopping carts, let alone full-sized humans with laptops in backpacks. The logistics just weren’t working.

I have no idea if the delivery thing will become a regular occurrence in my domestic life. But right now, I’m really looking forward to someone bringing all that Canada Dry right to my door.

Itinerant Life—Three Years Later

On the fourth Thursday in November in years gone by, my mother would often encourage us to remember the events 360+ years prior. That’s an awful long time to look back on. But, like my mother, I have a tendency toward nostalgia, and this past weekend I kept thinking back three years. On July 4, 2007, I moved from The O.C. to Atlanta. I spent the morning reading a book at Dana Point harbor, then headed for John Wayne airport, dropping the book at the library on my way. Later that evening, as I drove north from the Atlanta airport, I saw at least three different fireworks displays. I thought it was a great way to welcome me to the state.

I’ve thought a lot about that move, mostly because the date provides such a nice milestone. This weekend I completed my fourth move since that one. But this move was a milestone in another way too: it was the first time I’ve moved without employer-sponsored relocation since Labor Day 2002. It’s certainly more convenient to have a team of professionals pack everything, load it up, then put it in the correct rooms at my destination. But there’s a sense of independence that comes from doing it on my own.

My place in New York is my 15th address (not including the places I’ve lived with my parents). The upside of this is that I’m pretty good at unpacking: establishing a place for everything and getting everything into its place. The downside is that I find the mere thought of moving again overwhelmingly exhausting. In my experience, moving is a task that I may become better at with practice, but it certainly doesn’t get any easier.

The real upside is that when it comes to moving, I’m done. (At least for the foreseeable future.) I have a brand new place to explore and all the freedom I need to do it. Have MetroCard, will travel.