The day I knew my last big relationship was over was actually a few weeks before we broke up. My at-the-time boyfriend was at a bar with his friends and he asked me earlier in the day to join them. A few hours later when I asked where to meet them, he told me there wasn’t room for me at the bar.
I found this deeply fascinating because 1. Bars are famous for making room for people and 2. The island of Manhattan is not known for its shortage of watering holes. When he told me there wasn’t room for me, what he really meant was that he didn’t want me there. It took me a while to realize but then again, I ate that purple Heinz ketchup they tested in the 90s and scientists don’t know what long-term cognitive effects that may have had.
From that night on I made a promise to myself that I would always make room for someone at a bar. That I’d always add one more chair to my table (this is a fantasy scenario in which I have a table that seats more than 2). I promised myself that I’d never again be with someone who treated me like I took up too much space. I haven’t had a boyfriend since, but that’s just because work is really hectic right now.
Work is really hectic right now. And I can’t go into details about it because I work in advertising now and my days are secrets and my nights are crazy parties. I love my new job and not because my bosses are subscribed to this and reading it, but because I finally get to spend my days writing. Which is why I haven’t written to you in a few weeks, my dear and patient reader.
My office is in Soho. For those of you who don’t live in New York, Soho is a place where you can get a $10 tattoo and $100 prebiotic smoothie on the same block. Commuting to Soho is a transcendent experience in which you get to see people at their most fashionable leap over sidewalk poop.
Spending most of my waking hours in Soho has done something weird to my brain. I find myself online shopping for yoga pants. I pause in front of the window for a clothing store called “florp” that sells leather bathing suits for people and rainboots for dogs. I think about the last time I worked in Soho, where I was making 60 cold calls a day to people who didn’t want to talk to me. Now, I come to Soho because people are paid to listen to me. And I am putting my liberal arts education to work, something I never thought possible.
Starting a new job is a lot like being a freshman again. I am meeting new people every day, finding out where the best bathrooms are on campus, and learning new acronyms. A community is not a community without its designated list of esoteric acronyms.
The only important thing is having space. That you feel wanted and welcomed and needed and trusted. That you are a necessary spoke on the wheel. That your opinions matter and that people want to make room for you at the bar. I’ve understood this for a while now. I know the people who want me around and I know the people who don’t.
I’m in a yoga class where I can stretch my leg over to the left without fear of kicking a neighbor. I’m at a dimly lit restaurant sitting on the booth side of the table and the seat is big enough to put my bundled up parka and my tote bag down next to me. Booth-seat real estate is an unspoken Manhattan luxury.
I am slowly but enthusiastically entering my Peggy Olson era, and by that I mean I’m gonna wear tweed skirts and drink whiskey and yell at men. But I won’t smoke because I simply don’t have the time.
Beautiful work.