Even after I told the cabby, “34th Street between 11th and 12th,” I couldn’t stop saying it in my mind, as if repetition would get me there faster.
34th Street between 11th and 12th
34th Street between 11th and 12th
I was on my way from SoHo racing to catch a bus from downtown that would take me back home after a three night leave away from my kids. Before running outside of the hotel to hail a cab, I hastily glanced at my email reservation with the bus pick-up point that I was desperately trying not to forget as I flung my arm up in the air trying to wave down the next driver.
As a non-native New Yorker, and definitely not a city girl my mind was a little foggy after being overstimulated by the busy city streets, endless crowds, late-nights, and possibly too many indulgences with my girlfriends. Ok fine, booze. Let’s just call a spade a spade here, which may clear up some confusion over my potential inability to remember an address.
I’d had a fabulous time in the city with three of my cherished girlfriends, but if I missed my bus home I would be devastated. The last morning flew by way too fast and knowing my family was waiting for me, I began to feel the pull. Responsibilities and real life were beckoning me as I began to come down from the (figurative) high that I’d been living on for the last 48 hours.
When an available cab, my shiny yellow chariot, pulled up to the curb where I was standing, my nerves began to settle. I definitely wouldn’t have too much time to spare, but I knew I had ample time to get there and find a seat on the double-decker bus that would carry me home. As the cab sped away, I put on my sunglasses and tried to take in the last of the sights and sounds rapidly passing by me.
I was the first of the four of us to leave the lovely brunch I had been enjoying just 30 minutes ago. One of my friends, aka “The Map,” was still enjoying her last bites of a pecan sticky bun during another tasty NYC brunch. I already missed her and the security of her geographical knowledge of the city. I missed the pack, too. We’d been each others companions and backs during a girls revival weekend, and I love that feeling of sisterhood shared among close friends and true sisters for two of us. I felt a natural sadness coming on as we hugged goodbye and as my energy level began its decent after a weekend filled with constant gusto.
The liberating feelings of freedom I had embraced from being away from my kids for a few nights were well warranted because every iota of my being needed a break from my day-job as stay-at-home-Mom. It goes without saying I love being at home with my kids, but part of the reason for this trip is because I love myself, too. At one point I decided that not going on a get-away trip like this would be a disservice to my kids and myself.
I live in a demanding place of push and pull between what my two-year-old and four-year-old needs from me and what I need as a human being aside from them. The latter, which constantly gets side-swiped, has been starving for some independence. My last girls weekend trip to NYC was almost two years ago, and I was pregnant with my daughter at the time. Glowing with bump, but restricted with choice.
Fast forward to March 26-29, 2015. This time to NYC I only had to worry about feeding my own soul.
And so the trip began.
Feeding my soul, another phrase I couldn’t get out of my head. Just hours after arriving to the city on the first day, I made a theatrical proclamation to my friends that feeding my soul is what the trip means to me. Incidentally, it was also my birthday so I felt an extra force of certainty when I said those words.
Feeding my soul.
Feeding my soul.
No one was hollering from my womb about what they needed or pressing on my bladder. No one under four feet tall was requesting fruit snacks and begging me to play super heroes or asking me to find a lost bouncy ball for the 8,000th time that day.
So how did I feed my soul for three nights?
Aside from the obvious girl laughter, nonsense, late-nights, delicious food, fancy drinks, booty shaking, and shopping-filled moments, I fed my soul by taking pictures of random objects that became interesting to me.
These pictures are all interesting to me because:
(a). I would never don those red high tops, but on someone else – rock on with your badass self. You can do and wear anything you want in NYC, and I respect that.
(b). I have never been given a check in a mini tin planter, plus I wanted to remember the double smash avocado with an egg and toast that I ate for breakfast while I am eating my kids slimy leftovers in my day-to-day life.
(c). I have not had my hand, let alone the inside of my wrist, stamped at a bar in years. Fortunately I didn’t wake up with it smeared on my cheek the next morning.
(d). And hot damn, eating a gigantic apple on the Subway and then not being able to find a trash can sure did give me some inspiration for a little word play, even if only to provide a chuckle for myself.
Later in the trip I no doubt then provided a chuckle for my girlfriends as I swung my hips in an almost $4,000 Prada dress like I was on a catwalk in Italy.
I have so many stories to tell about this trip, so many revelations about motherhood, so many hysterical moments that only occur during a girls weekend, and so much content to keep me daydreaming and writing when my kids are at bay. I love my little
time-suckers darlings so much, but I’m going to keep feeding my soul on this trip for as long as I can.
Tonight I’ll stop here, but stay tuned for Part II. Coming soon!