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In Which I Decide to go for a Run

Williamsburg Bridge, Brooklyn, New York City, writer, existential crisis, quarterlife crisisToday, I went on a run through Brooklyn. Don’t laugh; I’m actually not the tubby, bed-ridden troll my food and wine posts will have you believe.

Now, this post is more a thinky, “I have feelings about something” post, mostly about my move to this city.

So there I was, halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge going into Manhattan when my chest started burning, as if Hell decided to break a dimensional gate and the most convenient point of entry was my chest. (Correction: I actually am the tubby, bed-ridden troll my food and wine posts will have you believe.) And I kind of gave up, which made me realize: I might be a coward? Which, fuck, what an eternally depressing thought, to be confronted with the whole of your life’s decision on this random existential run, which started off as an act of health or wellness or something, when really, it was a combination of your subconscious and soupy muscles deciding to drop some heavy shit on your mellow. And was it run-related? I don’t think so.

Mostly, I still wonder why I did it. The move, that is. I was arguably happy in Chicago, the happiest I’ve ever been. You know the drill: the Greatest Friends in the World, an awesome apartment/cat in an awesome neighborhood. A stagnant drive and an overwhelming sense of comfort and laziness in my soul. That kind of happiness.

And now, roughly nine months after my move, I kind of feel the same way, but in Brooklyn. I mean, were I still a fetus–to reference the obvious metaphor re: timeline–I would not be what one biologically considers “done.” I am not ready to exit this bitch, frankly.

I’m a mature adult! Or so the literature would have you believe. Twenty-six, college-degree, stable-ish job; I’m competent! Except not. I’m terrible with taxes, kind of slow on chores, addicted to naps… I often wonder what I’m doing in a city that eats its young and spits out these shiny, lovely drones walking in stilettos and brogues, too eager to enter their reflective corporate towers and shill out meaningless copy for the consumption of Middle America. But then again, am I being too hard on the machine that drives this city? Didn’t I move here to be even the littlest cog? Isn’t that what my countless resumes, cover letters and half-hearted tweets are for?

Yes, I had this free-association personal moment during my run, because when the fuck else is it going to happen? At the end of the day, I guess I’m happy here, though I obviously still have some adjusting to do. Not sure how to go about that, besides try harder, but, you know, I don’t have enough air pumping through my brain right now to make any sense of the above thoughts.

Oy vey, indeed.

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