You know why I left New York? That city turns you into a divorced, menopausal woman before you’re ready. Think about it. It’s February. You’re freezing, despite the $200 Michael Korrs marshmallow jacket that makes you look like a fashion-forward Randy from A Christmas Story. You walk those five blocks to the R train from your tiny, underheated apartment that costs more than Jess from high school and her fiance’s mini-mansion in Georgia.
Suddenly, the jacket’s doing its job, but not because of its quality material! You’re sweating your tits off in a stuffy subway car. You’re squished between fellow male, female, and gender fluid marshmallow jackets experiencing this miserable yet unifying hot flash with you. You get to work, and immediately change your shirt because the unifying R train hot flash gave you sweat marks on your back, under-tits, and armpits.
Later, you go out, and because you grew up in the tri-state area, you bump into the hot guy who got fat from high school not that there’s anything wrong with that, your college weed dealer, and, of course, your ex with his rebound who is either your Doppelganger or has a name oddly similar to yours! Lucky you, you get to meet Dave’s brown hair, brown eyed Cece!! Your name is PHOEBE. The couple leaves quickly to catch a Broadway show — something YOU got Dave into.
College weed dealer sees that you’re sad, single, and alone, and next thing you know, you’re smoking a J with him, and upon the last hit, said weed dealer wishes you a “Happy Valentine’s Day.” You’re in shock because you had no idea it was Valentine’s Day. And, that’s when it hits you:
You never know what day it is anymore. Hot flashes are an hourly thing. The last men you had an interaction with this year was the college weed dealer whose name you will never remember, and Chris the cable guy. You are a twenty-five-year-old woman who is menopausal and divorced before being menopausal and divorced.
And that’s why I left New York and moved to LA.