Photo: Alice Plati
It’s your typical Wednesday morning. You wake up, hop in the shower before your roommates (whom you still have at the age of 24), ponder your day while you lather and rinse, decide you hate your job at the office, and resolve to just quit everything, pack up, and move to New York. If that situation sounds unfamiliar, it’s probably because it’s one of the most grossly irresponsible things one can do, especially in this economy (by the way, am I the only one completely sick of hearing that phrase?).
During this time in our lives, I think we tend to reach a breaking point. This isn’t necessarily as obvious as deciding to move in with a boyfriend or leaving him, nor even as obvious as making a workout plan rather than accepting the weight you’ve gained since college. Sometimes, this breaking point is internal, intangible, and can only be described as a longing to be something greater or more interesting than what you have managed to become.
I never thought that at the brink of my quarter life I would be living with two boys in Boston with a lackluster job, and on a Wednesday morning in January, I decided to leave it all behind. I quit my job, made weekly treks to New York to look at apartments, and a month later I was driving a moving truck across three states to my miniature apartment on the Upper East Side.
Just as Disney princesses have given the 90s girl unrealistic hair and relationship expectations, I would like to begin by saying Sex and the City has given me equally unrealistic expectations regarding my love life, writing career, and general level of chic in the Big Apple. I take the subway, waitress at a bar, write in my spare time in my living room-cum-dining room-cum-hallway, and aside from my cat have had very little company in the apartment. Also, I have not been given the opportunity to be drunk at Vogue. But it’s a life I’ve made for myself, and there are few things that feel so great.
This breaking point is really an exercise in fight or flight: you can either choose to accept the life you’ve been handed, or you can give it the big middle finger and start a new one.
As I spend my final months as a 24-year-old, I cannot help but be simultaneously terrified and excited (think Jessie Spano on caffeine pills) as I embark upon the adventures of my dwindling youth. I welcome you to follow said adventures on Quarterlette, where I will chronicle the pinch-me moments, along with the inevitable downfalls, of kickstarting my life in NYC.