For more than 5 weeks, I have really embraced my vagabond-esque New York existence. In the months prior, I had a bed, but I decided I didn’t really like it that much and got rid of it. My current sleeping situation is a marginal step-up from sleeping under a bath towel on a yoga mat. I’d told myself to buy a new bed, but kept waffling, kept getting sidetracked by work, kept getting distracted and generally not prioritizing the acquisition. I validated this simply: I sleep poorly, so the utility of this bed is limited.
Finally, I saw the light, figured out exactly what I wanted and made a plan to go to the nether regions: the Ikea in Brooklyn. After a low key Friday night, I woke up relatively early, got dressed and took the train to the Borough Hall stop where I planned to catch a shuttle to the store. On the way to the train station, it began to rain, gradually worsening to the point of discomfort (when my hair becomes a visual impediment). No problem, I thought, “Might as well spend a shitty day walking around, eating Swedish meatballs and drinking coffee - beer and college football will still be there for me next weekend.”
 20081108_ikea_brooklyn_restaurant_crop |
When I got above ground at Borough Hall, it became evident that Yahoo! Weather and I had a different idea of what “Showers” entailed. ”Showers“, to me, implies rain that is “generally pleasant and harmless” in nature, whereas “Rain” would mean “this will not be fun“. The experience that I endured could be most accurately described as “stay indoors unless it is a matter of life, death or libidinous satisfaction.” It also became evident that the shuttle would not be easily found.
It was at that moment that I realized that I would have to lean on the survival instincts I had honed from the combination of growing up in an affluent suburban town and an undergraduate career surrounded by privileged peers. My mind churned methodically for a moment and then an audible ‘ping’ went off, like an egg-timer indicating completion: “White people love Ikea. I will look for flocks of white people.” [Of course, I use white people as a proxy for upper middle class suburbanites and their urban analogues.]
After a bit of wandering, I finally located white people and resultantly, the shuttle location - the uncovered shuttle location, I should say. With the understanding that shuttles ran every 20 minutes on weekends, I knew that in theory, my wait would be limited. I spent a few moments cursing the online weather forecast and then cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. I moved on from from the latter, as I don’t like to get down on myself for more than 5 seconds. To divert the scorn from myself, I began scanning the growing crowd, making observations about the various characters and trying to predict their intentions. I looked at one couple and thought, “That woman has that guy by the balls - they are getting frilly window treatments.” I looked at another couple and decided that the guy would rather be watching football and was only there to appease his significant other and to protect himself from claims of “Not caring as much as her.”
It then dawned on me that EVERYONE there was a couple and for the first time in quite a while, I became self-conscious about not having a companion. The couples that would get on that shuttle would be soggy and of various temperaments, but they would be together. They didn’t have to worry who they would sit next to, whereas I would have to look for a single spot on an crowded bus. I felt like a straggler trying to crash the party on Noah’s Ark.
The last time I had encountered an issue like this was when I had to reconcile the fact that most of my friends don’t like sports enough to go to sports bars with satellite TV. I had since gotten over that and now venture into bars alone all the time. I find myself with the realization that I am more comfortable going to a bar alone than I am a furniture store. I gave myself a two minute countdown. After the shuttle failed to show in the alotted time, I grabbed a cup of coffee and got back on the subway.
Starbucks wouldn’t judge me for being alone.
Leave a Comment
