I'm sure I have plenty to say about grad school and bed bugs, and the logistical nightmare of stress NYC—that harshest of mistresses—has foisted upon me, but this morning at least, I'm having a hard time concentrating.
When my mother, bless her heart, suggested I cut and run a month early, there was a not so small part of my heart that sank at the thought of closing doors and returning keys. Giving up my pied-a-terre, however humble, means an uphill trek back to this city, whenever that may be. And leaving, regardless of when I go, means absenting myself from the metropolitan milonga scene.
My very heart sags at the thought. I choke up and a little voice in my head says, "but . . . tango is all I've got . . ." Then my hair-holding, clothes ironing mother comes back with, "Yes, honey, but you need more than that." And she's right. The whole point of my great escape is to take the time to make my daily life a bearable place, to finagle a way to do what I love for a living, and to take a few deep breaths in a place that doesn't go out of its way to assault me on my way to the grocery store. It's only for a few months, and tango will still be there to come home to. Only, then it will be gravy, not just a bandaid slapped over a soul-sucking job and a sketchy living situation.
That said, I took grateful refuge in my dancing shoes this weekend. Sleepless from infestation nightmares, I strapped those puppies on for eight hours of workshops and seven hours of social dancing. By ten pm last night, I was sure my calf muscles would crystallize from fatigue, but I went out anyway and made a night of it. I danced my way to a place where I felt no pain, and I didn't stop where my partner started. I had some of the best dances of my life.
Maybe the Universe gives you a balmy break now and then, even as it throws you every last thing you can handle, like so many stink bombs and hand grenades.
When my mother, bless her heart, suggested I cut and run a month early, there was a not so small part of my heart that sank at the thought of closing doors and returning keys. Giving up my pied-a-terre, however humble, means an uphill trek back to this city, whenever that may be. And leaving, regardless of when I go, means absenting myself from the metropolitan milonga scene.
My very heart sags at the thought. I choke up and a little voice in my head says, "but . . . tango is all I've got . . ." Then my hair-holding, clothes ironing mother comes back with, "Yes, honey, but you need more than that." And she's right. The whole point of my great escape is to take the time to make my daily life a bearable place, to finagle a way to do what I love for a living, and to take a few deep breaths in a place that doesn't go out of its way to assault me on my way to the grocery store. It's only for a few months, and tango will still be there to come home to. Only, then it will be gravy, not just a bandaid slapped over a soul-sucking job and a sketchy living situation.
That said, I took grateful refuge in my dancing shoes this weekend. Sleepless from infestation nightmares, I strapped those puppies on for eight hours of workshops and seven hours of social dancing. By ten pm last night, I was sure my calf muscles would crystallize from fatigue, but I went out anyway and made a night of it. I danced my way to a place where I felt no pain, and I didn't stop where my partner started. I had some of the best dances of my life.
Maybe the Universe gives you a balmy break now and then, even as it throws you every last thing you can handle, like so many stink bombs and hand grenades.
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1 comment:
"...a place that doesn't go out of its way to assault me on my way to the grocery store."
That's exactly the way my guy has described NYC to me. He says just surviving, on a day to day basis, is absolutely exhausting.
Also, the first time I read the title of this post I thought it said "Time will do the taking." Which is also an appropriate title for this blog.
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