The New Digs

I had an incredible life in Los Angeles.

So, why the hell did I come to New York City?

Because I HAD to.

I’ve been talking about living in NYC since my early 20’s, when I was banging my head against the rain splattered window of my tiny office at a certain cancer research center, performing the most menial tasks during the most supremely dull 9 months of my entire life.

All I did at this job was mindless data entry, copying bits of data from patient’s medical reports from one computer screen to another. I was hired for a full time position but after a few months my boss sat me down and showed me a report she ran where I could plainly see I was only actually working 40 hours…a month. Oops.

“Oh, this job can be a little repetitive. We know you’re going to be taking lots of breaks. Just try to log in a little more work.”

I spent the remaining 30 hours a week illegally downloading songs from Napster to entertain myself. I had amassed an impressive collection of thousands. I’ll never forget the day I came in and found they had all been erased. My heart dropped. Was I going to be fired? I certainly wasn’t going to demand the IT department return my stolen songbook!

If I had any free time, it was spent dreaming of a life in California and New York.

I would apartment hunt online constantly. I recall my dumb self emailing a real estate broker in NYC and asking her if the very reasonable monthly condo fees also included the rent. So embarrassing!

I saw myself doing a quick stint in LA (where I would instantly become famous and perhaps earn a little dough in the interim) and then make the natural transition to NYC.

Of course, in my mind, I would eventually also live in Cairo and then probably London for a bit too.

I was young and naïve.

I had attempted to move to New York exactly 10 years ago. The 2004 Tsunami had other plans for me.

I had planned a 3 month round-the-world-trip which culminated in my new East Coast life.

During the first few days of my journey, I realized two things about myself. I wasn’t ready for NYC. I still had a very long chapter to live out in LA. I also knew I wasn’t meant to live abroad. Away from my friends and family. Away from toilet paper being a normal item to find in a bathroom.

Growing up idolizing the Indiana Jones character, I always fancied myself an adventurer. I was certainly the explorer but didn’t know, until I set foot in Bangkok the day after the Tsunami, that I was perfectly happy being an annual vacationer leading an otherwise stable life.

What a disappointment I was. I wasn’t Bun Boy Jones! I was Bun Boring! I was a scared little kid who only liked to dip his toe in the piranha filled waters, never just jump right in. Two weeks anywhere abroad and I’m pining for my own spider-free bed.

Since my disastrous trip to Asia 10 years ago, I’ve travelled to all the countries I had originally intended to travel to. Besides my failed attempt at an overnight trip to Jordan (while I was in Israel) I’ve unintentionally had an adventure everywhere Indiana Jones has (Egypt, India, South America).

Or maybe that wasn’t so unintentional?

A few months ago, I realized the time for New York was NOW.

No more stalling.

I had been dating someone for several years who just moved there so it was the natural next step.

I had a friend at work encourage my future NY life and help push the baby bird out of the sunny, LA nest.

My heart was in my forehead as I walked down the very long hallway to hand in my resignation. I choked when it came time to tell three of my supervisors to meet in the managing partner’s office so I would only have to give the “I QUIT” speech once.

Instead, I panicked. I told the receptionist (also a good friend) that I couldn’t do it. My throat closed up. I had turned into Helen Keller.

I had her go into each office and summon everyone for me. I owe her dearly.

In the middle of my stuttering attempt at a resignation, the managing partner chimed in “You know, Bun Boy. Perhaps good things really do happen to good people.  We just had someone hand in their notice at our NY office.”

I had heard about the NY office before, but assumed the 12 folks there specialized in another field of work. I had no clue someone who had worked there for 25 years, who did exactly what I do, had just up and quit.

I guess it was my lucky day.

Not only did I get to skip the whole “spend months in NYC looking for a job, anxious, depressed and stressed out whilst blowing through every dime I had” situation but the best part was, the NY office was a mere 10 minute walk from my apartment.

No cramming into the subway every day, trying to keep my sweat levels down from “Why, yes those ARE explosives strapped to my person” to a much more reasonable “possible serial killer or porn addict” level.

I was saving hundreds of innocent New Yorkers from having to witness the sweaty nightmare that is me in hot, close quarters. Or sitting naked on an iceberg, for that matter. I can sweat anywhere.

COMING SOON: “My First Miserable Week in NYC. Sincerely, the Ingrate”

My apartment was built in 1900. I was also 1900% sure it was going to be haunted and that sleepless, spectre-filled nights were to be my future.

The church across the street from me. Providing solace and lots of creepy photo opps.