Tomorrow, April 25th, 2012, the New York City Marathon draws from the lottery of prospective entrants to determine who shall run a torturous 26.2 through the five boroughs of the metropolis. I had made running in this race a resolution last year, but I was thwarted by the luck of the Scheidler. (If you succumbed to clicking the hyperlink, I will let you know that I also failed at writing a book and improving my accordion skills but did start flossing regularly and spent the summer in London.) Only about 10% of lottery entrants are selected, and in 2011 it was even fewer.
I am so ready to run this marathon. Well, ready fashion-wise, not physically. I have decided what to wear (pizza shirt), what to listen to (four episodes of This American Life and then some "pump-it-up" songs to try to finish at my goal time of 4:30), and how to do my hair (pigtail braids). The powers that be in heaven and on Earth should recognize that running this is my destiny.
But, tomorrow's drawing may have a much more profound influence on my life.
I have chosen to view being selected to run in the New York City Marathon as a sign that I should move to New York City.
NYC has had a crazy appeal to me for years. Who know if I subconsciously internalized the episodes of Friends my mother watched dedicatedly throughout my childhood (a series which I watched myself chronologically in its entirety during college one or two episodes at a time over breakfast). I applied to NYU as an undergraduate, but was daunted by the crippling cost of tuition (okay, and a little bit of fear at the great unknown). The great travesty is that I went on to earn a Master's degree from NYU, but NEVER lived in the city or even New York state! (Sure, you will never hear me complain about living in Florence, but maybe it is now time to reside in the Big Apple.) I also may be strangely compelled to move to NYC because my mom changed the ringback tone on her phone to a well-known Sinatra song, so every time I call her I hear, "Start spreading the news. I'm leaving today. I want to be a part of it: New York, New York."
I am a prime candidate to be eaten up by a big heartless city. I can be shy and antisocial and absentminded and naive. But I am also hoping that living in the city of dreams (is that a real nickname, or did I just make it up?) I may be motivated to do the thing I always say I want to do: write. Screenplays, novels, short stories, zines, plays, musicals, songs, telenovellas, poetry, letters, resumes, quips, jokes, notes on the palm of my hand, maybe even graffitti.
I also think moving to New York is really terribly trite for a wannabe writer. But things happen in NYC. And how can it not be trite to move to a city where 8 million people live already. "Get off your hipster high horse (not stoned high, judge-y high), Roni and do what you want to do without arguing with yourself about its originality," I say to myself.
I have a job that I am suppose to work until November 16th. I like the people and like the job sometimes. To move to New York, I would have to forsake duty in the name of whimsical aspiration.
But if I do get it, I have a date for the day I hope to arrive in the city suitcases in hand: July 1st. But what will I put in these suitcases? Can I logically tote my guitar, cello and accordion across the country?
However, these problems can be considered after I see what fate the gods of chance decide.
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