Wednesday, March 23, 2011

city mouse/country mouse.

I've recently discovered that as much as I like the idea of being a city girl, I might not be a city girl. Sure, I think it would be really exciting and independent to move to a city, get a posh apartment, have a real job with a salary, and be able to tell people that I live in a city, but that might not happen. And here are the reasons why:

I think I might hate cities. The only city that I actually like is Boston because I don't have to drive anywhere when I'm there. All I have to do is jump on the subway (or walk if I'm with my older brother who refuses to take the subway even when it's blizzarding and the temperatures are far below's a touchy subject, so don't ever bring it up). I would never have to park, navigate traffic, or get lost every time I go somewhere. Well, I may get lost, but I would be on foot not car. And for some reason, that sounds more enjoyable to me. At least if I'm on foot, I don't have to consider abandoning my car to run through the streets crying and screaming. I also wouldn't have to worry about one-way streets. Or buildings. But as of now, I don't have a job in Boston. I only have a brother there.
This is Boston. I could be here. Lost and running frantically through alleyways.
I don't know if I'll ever be able to afford a posh apartment. Or city living. Turns out people in the social services fields don't really make much money. Maybe I should have looked into that a little sooner, as in before I'm about to graduate with my master's. So, even if I become a city girl with a real job and salary, I probably still won't be able to afford the apartment. And if I somehow manage to afford the apartment, I may not be able to afford utilities. Or food. Or nice beer. Obviously I don't care much about the utilities part...I hate showers anyway, but we all know how much I love food and nice beer. 

I like to talk to people. I don't want to be that weird girl from Missouri that talks to everyone she sees, because who are we kidding? That's who I would become. Is it okay to walk into a grocery store in New York City and start talking to people in the produce aisle? Is it okay to make eye contact and smile at people on the street? Is it okay to sit right next to someone on the subway? I don't know. 

I may or may not be a little too trusting. I tend to think that all people are good and, thus, leave my belongings scattered across Columbia. Fortunately, in Columbia, you can accidentally leave your car door hanging open downtown for two hours and only know you did it because the police will call and tell you they shut it and locked it. That might have happened to me. I'm also not really scared of people. Or darkness. Or walking by myself in the darkness. And I think that you need to be a little scared to live in a city. So, now I'm Julie, fearlessly lost and running through city alleyways in the darkness. And I'm listening to Arcade Fire's song We Used to Wait on my iPod (which hasn't been stolen yet, but may be in the near future when I potentially leave it on the table at some coffee shop). Oh and by the way, you should probably click on the link to the song and follow the directions on the website. Spoiler Alert: It will possibly lead you to the greatest thing you've ever seen. You're welcome.

I also really like small towns. And cities are definitely not small towns. Though I suppose there are always parts of cities that can feel somewhat small town-like. But can anywhere be better than Owensville, Missouri? Where the backyards look like this: 
Try and tell me you don't want to roll around on Papa's perfect grass.
And the bingo cards look like this:
If I could choose any of those dotters, I would choose purple.
I suppose we'll just have to wait and see where I end up! And by that, I mean "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if I get a job!" And at this point, the chances that I'm rolling around in Grammy and Papa's backyard forever are looking pretty high. I think I'm okay with that.

1 comment:

  1. My professor told us a story about a New Yorker whose one lingering question after moving to St. Louis was, "What is it with this place and why do the cashiers at the check out always try to talk to me?"