Stress: My Creepy Pervy Neighbor

In NYC, you're not living unless you're dying. 

It's a twisted concept in which only a group of determined people can theorize; and honestly believe in the paradoxical truth.  It's hard to just live in the city when there's so much to do if you want to have an art gallery showing in Brooklyn or raise funds for your 2nd feature film or register your kid for PS 39... Even though he has yet to be conceptualized.

Tell a real New Yorker, you've decided to take a "personal day", due to stress.  Your statement will cast an uncomfortable blanket over an unexpected conversation you both regret having which will ultimately, be followed by an equally awkward response, "O-kaay.  Um... Well... Good luck with that."  By the end of the week, all of Manhattan will know you as "the one" who took a "personal day" which sounds a lot like "the one" who "gave up". 

Everyone is completely stressed out but it's something no one really talks about.  Sure, you get a lot of people moaning, "Ugh, I'm so stressed out."; but it's never an actual acknowledgement.  It's more of a statement that people like saying because it makes them feel like they're actually doing something productive.

It's something you accept as a by-product of living in the most amazing city in the world -- Like accepting to pay $2500 for a shitty basement studio-turned-1BR that allows only sunlight from 7:03 to 7:35 AM; has a hissing-racking-steaming radiator that never heats; and a water-pressure that feels like an urinary tract infected 88 year old is pissing on you  Dripdripdripdrip... Dripdripdrip... Drip... Drip...  Dripdripdripdripdrip...Drip............Dripdrip...  All because it's below 23rd Street. 

Stress is something you learn to accept but it's a given you don't do anything about it because admitting you have a problem is the first step to... Well... Admitting you have a problem.

My Stress: Personified

I have a habit of personifying the difficult situations in my life because it's easier for me to deal with them.  "Stress", is the neighbor across the street who I desperately try to avoid eye-contact because he is also a registered sex offender.

I know he's there.  He knows I'm here.  I don't particularly like that he's there but I can't afford to live in a posh "Pedophile-Free Zone" neighborhood; and he can't quite afford to live a little closer to a park with colorful jungle gyms.  But we're both here under a circumstance larger than us.

I think I'm excused from saying, "Hey, Jack!  Beautiful Saturday we're having!" but I have to acknowledge him; and more importantly, I've got to keep my tabs on him.  

That's how "Stress" is in my life.  It's there.  Lurking behind the trees ready to pop out any minute at the most inappropriate times like Halloween or when the Girls Scouts are selling boxes of Thin Mints.  I realize I'm not the prime target but I can easily be the innocent by-stander of some creepy episode that will leave me with a tainted, gross feeling.

I wouldn't say this is how all New Yorkers perceive stress.  In fact, I know they don't because there are  people, some good friends of mine, who manage to get through year-to-year without missing a beat or taking a moment to blink.  It's fascinating to see the focus of their determination to succeed in whatever it is they want to succeed in.  



"Personal Day" in the jungle.


I just don't have that sort of drive.  If NYC is a jungle, my specie would have been eaten a long time ago.  Clearly, I'm barely hanging from extinction.  I'm a vegetarian, unwilling to eat another animal, and I'm more focused on finding a way to do what I love while still making time to take photos, collect boxes, surf and have Taco Wednesdays for my good friends. 

Last week, I took a "personal day" (fortunately, "crazy people" are legitimately excused from being ostracized for taking care of themselves) which ended up more like "personal hours" throughout the entire week. 

I spent most of those hours just f*ckin' around. 

• Playing my ukulele and singing until my voice was hoarse
• Listening to guilty-pleasure music I secretly enjoy but would never admit -- "Hangin' Around" by Counting Crows
• Listening to guilty-pleasure music that reminds me of my childhood -- The entire album, Great Escape, by Blur

• Eating a Twix chocolate bar
• Blaring Marlena Shaw on my Ipod and going for a 5 mile jog
• Listening to more music that reminds me of my childhood -- Elastica -- and dancing in my underwear (clearly, I had a Britpop phase)
• Watching terrible, crappy movies starring Anne Hathaway
• Picking up a book of fiction
• Playing hooky and spending time with my BFF
• Dreaming big-ass dreams out loud and laughing hysterical at the absurdity of it all
• Making other people laugh and laughing at them laughing at me
• Drawing as if I could really draw
• Finding a creative-writing pseudo editor

It's been a week and I can honestly say, I feel refreshed.  I found the root of my imbalance, as TCM states, and now I can focus on finding ways to just get back in harmony.  I realized I was putting all my energy on school and neglecting the other aspects of my identity. 

I tend to think this is a New York thing.  I don't think other people in other parts of the world identify themselves by their career.  I don't think they allow it.  I think they define themselves by all the stuff they do -- Career, hobbies, personal relationships, day dreams, goals, holidays, passions...

It's a concept that resonates with me but one which will take time to fully comprehend.