My Manicurist Doesn’t Speak English

September 20, 2009 at 10:23 pm 6 comments

…but she knows my name.  Welcome to New York.

Two weeks and two days ago, I moved to this city to persue my passion.  I don’t have one yet, but when I get one, I am sure that New York is the place to be when I get around to going after it.  In high school, I used to sit around with my drama club friends and chat shit about five of us renting a studio apartment and lining the floors with mattress after mattress so we would always have a place to sleep.  We thought NYC would be just like “RENT,” but hopefully sans deadly diseases, and also with more money.  That is to say, I have always held a romantic ideal of what it would be like to move to The Greatest City on Earth! and mostly, it lives up to the hype.048

There is one element of city livin’ that I didn’t see coming – my imaginary transformation in to Emma Miller, Very Serious Detective.  I can’t help but play little games in my head like, “What Ethnic Group Am I Going to Stereotype As Wanting to Snatch My Purse?” or a rousing round of “Which Crazy Person On the Subway Will I Decide Is Going to Follow Me Home and Rape Me?”  There was a three day period, last week, where I couldn’t bring myself to leave the apartment, because… well, because why?  Because I’m scared of all the people in Brooklyn that don’t speak a language I understand?  Because I am clearly not from here, and people from here have said they noticed as much, and oh my God, I just want to fit in?  More than these things, I think I have a really hard time convincing myself that not everything is an episode of Law and Order, and that most people are not criminals.

I have also noticed a peculiar amount of people who want very much to be noticed when they walk down the street, the antithesis to my own anxieties.  One young lady sports an electric yellow sweatshirt featuring a band I’ve never seen, pleather leggings, cowboy boots, septum piercing, and seven strands of pink pearls around a too-slender neck.  Who are these people, that in a city boasting eight million or more souls have to scream for attention just walking down the street?  They seem so exotic to me.  Maybe I should tell them that they certainly have my attention, but no, then I become the crazy person on the subway, freaking someone out who I believe must feel equally foreign.

New York City is so robust and over-stimulating, I’m sure the intimidation I feel is quite natural.  Even so, I have always been a gregarious person, at times too bold, and I have no excuse for holding myself back from living the life my seventeen-year-old heart had imagined.  This place may as well be the moon, considering my suburban and rural lifestyle thus far – but hey, I’ve always liked Star Trek.  I can do this.  After all, if my Korean manicurist or El Salvidorian deli cashier can make it here – and they have a whole bunch more hurdles to attempt to bound over, eyes closed and mind open, than I ever will – I’m sure I can find some way of making a life here.


Entry filed under: Emma, KittenPuppy, Miscellaneous Musings. Tags: .

Joel McHale Jennifer’s Body

6 Comments Add your own

  • 1. miranda  |  September 21, 2009 at 9:07 pm

    how much do i love the phrase “chat shit”? so much.

  • 2. Emma  |  September 22, 2009 at 12:16 am

    good, because that is how much I love you, Mirrrrrr

  • 3. The Silly Addiction  |  September 23, 2009 at 4:28 am

    Better you than me, sister.

    Better you than me.

  • 4. parkrangerolivia  |  September 23, 2009 at 2:37 pm

    its going to be really hard to close your eyes if, according to your icon, you have 6!

  • 5. Emma  |  September 23, 2009 at 2:43 pm

    I think everyone could use a little bit more alien kitten influence in their lives. The more eyes, the merrier!

  • 6. KTrain  |  October 19, 2009 at 4:14 pm

    manicures scare me more than subway rapists.


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