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I’ve lived in New York City my whole life. This crazy, complicated, concrete covered city is home and will always be. I’ll admit that the first time I went to Barcelona I thought, “I could so live here.” But really that was just the excitement of being in Europe for the first time. I’ve never thought about leaving my city simply because, who in their right mind leaves New York?
You only leave New York if you’re poor and even then people stay. You only leave New York if you can’t handle fast talking, fast walking, nice, but not too nice people. You only leave if you can’t understand why no one wants to make small talk with you on the subway. You only leave if you can’t deal with solitude, because NYC is the most secluded place in the world. You must be thinking, “wtf?” but no seriously, NYC, as big as it is, is the loneliest place on earth.
I’m reaching a time in my life where I want to settle down. Gosh, I hate that term, but for lack of a better phrase…well, you know. It seems that the more I search for my true love, the further I get from actually finding him. I’m not writing this under the covers, tears streaming down my face, whilst eating Haagen-Dazs, by the way. I’m writing this with a smile, because I know that more than one New Yorker will read this and relate.
When you live in New York you have countless things to do, countless people to meet, countless places to see, but finding love is the hardest task of all, because New York City love is a cold and fleeting type of love. It’s love that lasts for a few weeks and then you move one to someone new and more exciting. Then another comes along and then you ghost or fade or do any of these other ridiculous dating terms millennials are so happily creating, without realizing that we’re completely ruining the beautiful thing that is dating and courtship. New York City love is love that gets scared and runs away because one party isn’t “ready.” It’s a superficial love, a showy love. A love that hurts when it leaves because you know you’ll have to endure the same situation time and time again with a different person.
I love New York, but I don’t want a New York kind of love.
I want the kind of love the climbs mountains and sleeps huddled together in a sleeping bag under the stars, not a love that takes you to a flashy bar and grouchily pays for the over-priced beers you had and never texts again.
I want the kind of love that cuddles, not the kind that deems you worthy of a second date because you sent them a nude fast enough.
I want the kind of love that is happy grocery shopping with me in my crappy neighborhood and won’t flaunt the fact that he’s been to 45 countries and counting.
I want the kind of love that I’m actually falling for, and not just because, out of all my tinder matches, he’s the only one that kept the conversation going.
I want the kind of love that doesn’t need me to jump into bed with him on the second date, because I’m afraid that he’ll lose interest.
I want the kind of love that I can sing to while walking in Central Park, without feeling stupid.
I want the kind of love I can envision myself getting old with, that will visit art galleries and eat dinner with me in Chelsea.
I want the kind of love that will totally get my obsession for bagels and not go on a rant about how much they suck.
I want the kind of love that wants to eat from food trucks with me, and won’t make me feel inferior because I’ve only been to the Michelin starred places twice in my life and I don’t know anything about wine.
I want the kind of love that won’t talk about work constantly, but will talk to me about the cool documentary he saw about the Korean war.
I want a love that’s real, and won’t hide from me. A love that’s willing to talk about the uncomfortable topics. A love that’s ready to dig into my mind and let me dig into his.
Maybe I should just move, perhaps there’s a better kind of love in Montana.