It's been 6 weeks to the day that I made the move from Los Angeles to NYC to start a new life, a new job, a new everything. As I settle into my stunning, peaceful West Village abode after nearly three weeks of corporate housing in possibly the busiest section of any city, anywhere - Times Square (did I mention I also work there?) - I finally have a moment to take stock of this gorgeous manifestation I have managed to call in for myself. Not even 2 months into this new adventure and I can already honestly say, what a ride it's been.
The practical, logistics of a cross country move are challenging at best. Forecasting the laborious and consuming nature of closing up a new life while simultaneously trying to carve out a new one is as predictable as my iPhone dropping calls. This includes but is not limited to managing early morning crazies at the requisite garage sale as unwanted clutter is unceremoniously cleared away, packing (and unpacking), forwarding the mail, turning things off (gas, electricity), turning them back on at the new location, selling my expensive hybrid car in a recession, and getting Time Warner to haul ass and hook up the cable/internet before I'm officially too old to have children. This in addition to finding a new place, lugging my bare necessities from my friend's house - where I stayed the first week - to corporate housing (floor 3), packing that up and moving to floor 7 (where I was told it would be much quieter - it wasn't), then hauling it all to my West Village apartment while managing a disorganized, chaotic trifecta of movers that managed to lose my nightstand, among other things, and burned a hole in my Ligne Roset sofa.
There was a time, not that long ago, when a move simply entailed the transport of a few suitcases, putting my futon on Craigs List, and notifying the post office of a change of address. One can quickly define their level of maturity by how long it takes them to pack their entire life up, save for hoarders. For now I come equipped with designer furniture, a top of the line mattress (for proper support doncha know!), real china, and lots of things that need to be wrapped in protective layering. Yes folks, I am an adult. I have the Limoge to prove it.
What I didn't predict was landing at my good friend's NY home that first night, and literally breaking down in a fit of anguished tears, suddenly tortured by the thought that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life. I had no place to live, was about to enter the corporate world for the first time at a senior executive level, and essentially giving up a perfectly good, in fact great life in sunny So Cal. And for what? Long winters and oppressively humid summers, a daily pace so frenzied, millions of locals literally race to get out of town each Friday, just to regain their peace of mind. In fact so common is this practice, no matter what your price point, there's a place not too far away that can offer you respite from the rigors of life in New York City. Most of all was this overwhelming fear that I might not have what it takes to cut it at at my new job. It had all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to take stock. And here I was, a couple of glasses of wine in, sitting on the spare room bed at my friend's Long Island home, sobbing into my hands, wondering if I had just set myself up for epic failure.
I tried a succession of things to sooth my woes. Subtle pleas to my girlfriends both near and far that I need talking off the ledge. Easier said then done because when you're the one who everyone defines as brave, fearless, strong, and invincible, it's hard to get them to take you seriously when you finally need actual help. Strike one. How about journaling? I am a writer after all. Surely putting it all down on paper, stream of consciousness-style, will help me reach some sort of epiphany? For an hour I scribbled furiously in my notebook, hoping I could delve deep into my sub-conscious and clear the way for the reasons behind my sudden panic attack. Turns out, I'm far more psycho than psychotherapist. These were the illegible ramblings of a mad woman. Incoherent, aimless, and wild. Strike 2. If the 3 strike rule applies in emotional emergencies, I had better hit the right chord next. On deck... Mum.
Fancy china and designer furniture aside, there is a great comfort in knowing you can always go home. While I may be 40, sometimes all one needs is to be reminded by the one person who knows you better than anyone else on the planet, that you're gonna be ok. Three clicks of my ruby slippers (or the dial of an iPhone) and I was soon on the receiving end of my mum's heartfelt diatribe that I came to this position in life because I earned it, that I have the innate skills coupled with years of hard work that have prepared me for this moment, not to mention that feeling this way is completely, and totally NORMAL. "In fact", said mum, "It would be weird if you weren't questioning such a life changing event at SOME point. It just caught up with you today, now that you are in NY, and it's all happening." Simple, succinct and grounding. All in one fell swoop. And with that I hung up the phone, put my head on the pillow, and crashed like a mo fo.
The next day, I woke up feeling refreshed, focused and ready to hit the streets of the West Village in search of a place to live. As I walked around with my broker in the 100 degree humidity, overjoyed that the heaviness had lifted, I gratefully pondered the notion once again, that one can always go home. Not only can I call home for great advice, but it suddenly occurred to me - LA isn't going anywhere. And if by some off chance I completely blow this opportunity, what's stopping me from going back and picking up where I left off? Because where I left off was pretty damn good.
Truth be told, I know I can do it. I recently heard a statistic that a large majority of highly successful people not only doubt their abilities, but actually consider themselves frauds a good deal of the time. Yes folks, everyone from Bill Gates to Bill Clinton have, at one time or another, thought the rest of the world would figure out they had no idea what they were doing. And then suddenly they knew what they were doing because they hung in there. Only to be followed by the same doubt about the next achievement they were trying to attain. And so the cyclical journey goes. It makes sense. To think you can conquer anything without questioning it just a little, even for a moment, borders on the sociopathic, doncha think?
I did question, I questioned HARD. Even though it only lasted a few hours, it made me take stock, clear out the fear, and press reset. As anyone who has a computer knows, sometimes the best thing you can do is unplug, and start up again.
Oh and in case you're wondering how I've settled in? I'm kicking ass and taking names.
