new york city girlhood is comparing how many men have shown you their dick in public while sipping an overpriced merlot at that loud french restaurant in that pretentious neighborhood in lower manhattan. bonus points if someone has had to call the police. sharing, hashing out, placing blame, slightly exaggerating, rehashing. all of our stories sound so similar because they are so similar. what happened to the girl in the black tube top and rubber flip flops happened to the girl in the jeans and a white tank. it all happened to me, too. 

there are slight differences in our stories that make us unique, that keep our takes interesting, that create content. she called the cops immediately, i stood there paralyzed. she was reading her book in the park, grateful for the shady knoll on a hot summer’s day. that woman got a seat on the subway during rush hour, feeling lucky to rest her feet after a long shift. one golden thread that ties our stories together is that these experiences are never provoked by us but instead thrust upon us. i don’t know these women, but i feel like i do. i share their fear, their forced laughter that makes it all ok, when we know it’s not ok, and we swallow these instances down, as big as horse pills, out of pure survival. because the city is the dream, and we’ve all paid good money for it. these instances are sad blips in the narrative. at least sometimes, it’s great cocktail party fodder. martini-infused whispers to make it all seem light. i’m so lucky it didn’t happen sooner is something i actually said after i was slapped as people sat watching across the street sipping aperol spritzes.

what did women used to talk about? what do women talk about in other corners of the country? have the women of new york always spoke about the aggressions they’ve endured? for context, i’m writing this at the beach. we’re an hour from manhattan, but our metropolitan lives still weave their slimy tentacles into our day of relaxation. but we all know there’s no unwinding when you’re near the city. we’ve all silently agreed that you have to drive or take the train at least two hours north to feel that. no genuine “fun in the sun” even as JFK jets, carrying passengers who likely at this very moment are muttering to their seatmates i love to visit new york, but i could never live there as they travel back to north dakota, pass overhead, as the faulty boeing’s chemicals mist us on the rocky shore below. 

sometimes i wonder if i should even live here anymore. i’m 27, broke (but not really), have gray hair, i’m happy, i’m tense, i need to sleep but even 12 hour hibernations don’t make me feel rested. even though this city is one of the most exciting in the world, life has become monotonous. frequenting the same restaurants, paying the same hefty bills, having the same conversations. it’s not “oh, this new, hot bar opened on these cross streets.” it’s “i was slapped on elizabeth and spring” or “my purse was stolen near the equinox on bond street.” our landmarks are the places where we were assaulted. i wonder when i’ll have my joan didion moment, when out of the blue or after the nagging becomes too deafening to ignore, i’ll realize that i’ve overstayed my welcome at the world’s craziest fair.