I’m calling it. I’m no longer a tourist. I live here. Here’s how I know:
1.The bagel guy knows me, and he calls me “Beautiful.” Side note: I’m sure he calls all the ladies “Beautiful,” but I don’t care. I’m going to pretend it’s just for me.
2.I have a hair stylist. Carlos makes me look my best, gossips with me and calls me “Love.” Do these New York guys know how to win a customer or what? Plus, he’s a block away. I never want to live more than a block away from Carlos again.
3.I’m starting to bemoan the 6th-floor walkup thing. Yes, it’s making my legs long and lean, but it’s hard to do in heels. It’s hard after walking across the freaking city earlier in the day.
4.I saw a dead rat.
5.I walked home from work, to class and halfway home from class (total time: 65 minutes in Midtown) on Tuesday before I noticed the Empire State Building was lit up blue and green. Why? Because I don’t look up at the tall buildings when I’m walking.
6.One of my co-workers told us she snapped at another co-worker. “Ehh, he can take it. And he probably deserved it,” I said. My boss looked at me in surprise: “New York has made you hard already!”
7.I have a handful of Metro cards in various places. One has a measly 5 cents on it.
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.