Last Tuesday, I visited a fabrication site in Asbury Park for work, and the Uber ride there cost more than I’m willing to ever think about again. Naturally, I took the train back, which only cost me $20 and a little under four hours of my time. I took the NJ Transit North Jersey Coast Line from Allenhurst to Penn Station, a route that has been burned into my frontal lobe out of fear of going the wrong way. I boarded the train, and as I was getting comfortable in my seat, Lena Dunham’s Famesick poised and ready to binge, I felt the train car gently vibrate. The sensation heightened almost immediately into a full shake as I heard a faint smattering of footsteps slapping against the train platform. Before I knew it, the rows surrounding me were overrun by a large swath of New Jersey youths, a population that I can only describe as a belligerent throng.
They played TikToks out loud, brought the purest stench of bubbling hormones and Axe body spray, and spewed combinations of words the likes of which I’d never fathomed. Listen, I do hear myself—I’ve always had a little piece of me that moves through the world like an 80-year-old man who only leaves his house to buy baked beans in bulk. But don’t act as if you’d ever opt in to share your train car with the bootleg cast of High School Musical: The Musical: The Series. Alas, I forced myself to get with their flow and let it go. Who doesn’t want to add a little extra color to their day?
On Friday, I had a fleeting connection with a being I can only describe as my soulmate. Her name was Winnie, and she was the most beautiful 11-month-old Bernese Mountain Dog I’d ever met. I had spotted her walking down Calyer Street, stopping at every Citi Bike to inspect the scentology of their wheels. Her owner was growing visibly exasperated with her, tripping over himself a few times as she seemed to only move in short, choppy bursts. As the pair slowed down, our paths became parallel. Winnie pulled her owner toward the curb, jumping at a leaf or maybe some trash. “I’m sorry, is there any way I can pet your dog?” I said, startling the man from behind and causing him to become entangled in Winnie’s leash yet again. All I can remember is that he was wearing dark-wash, leopard-print culottes and said, “Take all the time you need,” when I kept apologizing for petting his dog for longer than was socially acceptable. She reminded me of my white Labrador Retriever, Honey Butter, her square, heavy head barreling back into my waist as she pants, smiling and waiting for her highly anticipated pets.
Eventually, I introduced myself to her owner, Matt, and thanked him for being so generous with his pal. Winnie was so happy to be with Matt, to meet other strangers and me, and to catch up on the neighborhood gossip through all her sniffs, leaving her own mark with an itty bitty squat. Like Winnie and her walks, all three of my family’s dogs get beyond excited every evening for their favorite activity: roughhousing right under our feet because, apparently, the inconvenience and obstacles make it more fun. Their sneezing and snarling, heckles raised, and shifty footwork entrance us all. And we laugh every. damn. time! Because these dogs find such joy in the everyday things, all because they’re doing them around the people they love and the places they like to go.
I find myself constantly reaching for more when I’ve already been served so much, my combined ambition and delusion driving such greed. Back in the day, even the thought of New York was enough to get me out of bed. And now, there are moments when I find myself dreading leaving my apartment or comparing myself to New York’s most fabulous, and I forget just how much it took to get here. If you’re like me and have left your hometown or started a new job or even undertaken growth in your mental health, you know that the aspiration fades as soon as the box gets checked. But remember all the time it took? All that work you did? Can you remember how many times your heart was broken and how many times you tried to bail?
I walked away from Matt and Winnie, happy to be out of my apartment, amused by my trip back from New Jersey, happy to be in a position of abundance and freedom. I’ve done a lot of guess-and-check work to figure out who my people are and where in the city I feel most comfortable. And consequently, I’ve recently felt that if the world ended tomorrow, I'd feel pretty okay with where I’ve gotten and who I’m surrounded by. Life gets so much better when you keep showing up with intention and start forgetting the rules. I was happy to be on my walk because this is where I live! Because it’s New York! Because it’s my life! Fuck that other shit!
All I can speak to is the act of continuing to show up. With practice, it gets easier to romanticize work commutes, tend to both new and established friendships, and give more attention to hobbies. Not to mention, how much easier leaving the house gets! There were days, and certainly some nights, in college when I wanted to lie down and never have to worry about my alarm clock again, praying every time my head hit the pillow that time would stop. But it never did. And so, morning after morning, my alarm has rung, and morning after morning, I open my eyes and stretch out in my bed. My grandmother used to say, “I bet you’d stretch a whole mile if you didn’t have to walk back.” But I like walking in my neighborhood now; maybe I’ll try to stretch a little further tomorrow.
P.S. No superstar primarily comprised of dog talk is complete without a photo of my heart and soul:
