Tag Archives: Manhattan

Mill-xers

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I was still reeling from my discovery that fresh-faced young boys and girls were indebted to Allergan Pharmaceutical Co. (i.e. Botox makers).  Well, writhing and frothing at the mouth is a truer description of my sentiments.  Were twentysomethings really taking hours off from work to create these facades?  Didn’t they have low-man-of-the-totem-pole jobs to prove themselves at?  Happy hour free chips and salsa to overindulge in?  Cleaning duties to haggle with roommates about?

I wiped off my foamy mouth, and soothed myself with a jar of premium cocktail nuts, honoring the many years I couldn’t afford them.

And there was my beef.  My twenties are filled with memories of things I couldn’t do, or had to do in an awkward, sweaty, tear-stained way.  Like moving to Manhattan, and rotating through friends’ cramped apartments while searching for my own place.  My best friend and I shared a towel for fear of putting our hosts out.   Angry real estate agents bore down on us daily, and we resorted to taking antacids.  We bought two bagels each morning, one of them with cream cheese; we then took the cream cheese overflow and spread it on the other bagel, saving ourselves a total of thirty cents.

And when we broke our hosts’ futon, we were prepared to give up the bagels themselves to cover the repair.  We cried silently into germy pay phones, assuring our parents that all was well and their stern warnings about moving to New York were for naught.  Martyrdom and Generation X go well together.

I bit forcefully into a macadamia.  I was never like today’s kids.  My lunchtime in those days was usually four p.m., when the meeting leftovers would roll out of my office conference room.  I took the bus to IKEA, not mom’s minivan to CB2.  I would have gladly traded in my scratchy Chinatown market t-shirt for a $99 cashmere cotton blend with a “Tofu is cool” message.

I used to walk to Bloomingdale’s to save money.  Drats.  Busted.  At Bloomingdale’s. Often.  Beauty department.  Saks too.  Clinique lipstick section.  Some Clarins spa visits.  Appearance mattered, in order to get chosen from the line by the bouncer for entry into Friday night’s club of choice.  So I could then hand over my weekly food budget as a cover charge.  And buy a five-dollar bottle of water.  And then take a taxi home, crosstown AND uptown.  To do it all again the next night.

No, I was never like these kids.  Except when I was.

When One Door Closes, Knock Anyway

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Twenty years ago, I was just a kid avoiding contact with the world, walking the streets of Manhattan with a giant Walkman slung on my hip.  I was often listening to the static between radio stations, but looking engrossed to any passerby.  “This is the most poignant haunting melody ever created by man, and I must look through you as I may attain nirvana in the next minute.”  The real wish behind my expression: please go away.

Then one day at work, I got an office.  Hurrah, no more forced camaraderie all day long.  I could finally let my hair down; especially since my optimal hair-drying method involved repeatedly twisting the hair and shoving it into the back of my shirt. And I could now attack food freely during phone calls, without worrying about the cute blond copywriter across the way staring at the black bean on my cheek.  A new world.

At first, I tried to learn and live by the cues of office door etiquette.  Of course an open door meant an invitation to come one, come all.  Also, beware if you happened to be one of those souls who courteously called out “Bless You” for a sneeze in the hallway.  The recipient would soon come into your office to express gratitude, and fifty other details about the day.  Hrrrumph.

So I began plugging in my headphones, infused with a steady internet stream of trance and Colombian rock.  And yet, people would still saunter in, and surprisingly, start talking.  Darn tiny earbuds, too unnoticeable for the human eye.  Eventually I resorted to a half-closed door stance, combined with large headphones; and I blocked time on my online calendar, which was visible to all.  “I wanted you to know, there is some cake left from Karen’s birthday party,” was the first no-knock, walk in.  The second was “Can I ask you something?”

The next day, I closed the door fully.  For hours.  Knock.  Ignore.  Knock again. Silence.  Folder slipped under the door – a birthday card being circulated for signatures.  I failed to grasp the critical nature of this, but no surprise there.  Instant Message began flickering in the lower quadrant of my screen, “Are you busy?”

So the years move forward, and here I am still in my office chair, trying to shrivel up and disappear, but awaiting a knock at any moment.  For someone will always need to talk to you.  Right now.  Just like there will always be unavoidable crowds of people on your side of the street trying to make eye contact. One of them may try to be really friendly and rub up against your back while you are waiting at the crosswalk.  I think it’s OK to tell that person to go away.