Inside Out

I always seem to do things backwards. Honestly.

I just moved to Maine, one of the most naturally beautiful parts of the country. My intention was to take advantage of the beautiful outdoors, and run more, bike more, breathe in more fresh air. Instead, I’m finding myself becoming more and more addicted to exercise classes at a yoga studio above an Enterprise rental car place.

You would think I would have done this more in New York, where you can take an exercise class of any sort at pretty much any time of day. But in New York, I ran back and forth across the Williamsburg Bridge, along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and through the industrial streets of DUMBO, and even rode my bike from the Lower East Side to East Harlem for work upon occasion. (My most recent housemate will no doubt dispute me on that last one.) My tendency to run or bike rather than take a class was partly due to not feeling up to spending $15 on an exercise class (that was money better spent on going out for drinks! God.). But since I am so much less mobile here, thanks to my newfound reliance on my car, I am forcing myself to take classes, because I keep wimping out on my jogs along the Eastern Promenade. Beautiful as it is, I find myself lacking the motivation to run very far or fast.

What else do I do backwards? Well, now that I’ve moved to a city with excellent microbrew beer, one of my favorite beverages, I’m finding myself more inclined to drink wine, now that I know which ones are less likely to stuff up my sinuses.

And, I’m probably one of the few people in the world who could move to Maine without a job, then end up getting one two months later in my chosen field that pays more than I was making in New York City. In a flash, the fifth-floor walk-ups and apartments shares with people I met on the Internet are gone. I’m living much more comfortably now than I have since I left Tiverton when I was 18 years old. I know I’ve given up a lot by leaving New York, access to culture and the excitement of the street and my friends and the interesting people you meet and the stories you hear and the things you see. Maybe I’m just getting old, or maybe I’ve always been a homebody and tried to deny it, but I think I really like my creature comforts. Like, a couch I can call my own, and let my cat slowly claw to pieces. A separate office to put all my electronics in so I don’t have to sleep in a sea of digital lights in my bedroom at night. And a nice little deck that gets lots of sun in the morning and smells like salt air. Does coveting all this stuff more than proximity to Manhattan mean I’m totally lame?

I don’t want to jinx myself, but things have been so much more comfortable since I moved to Portland, in ways both big and small. I have a real bed, not just mattresses on a floor or futon frame, for the first time in 15 years. It only takes me 15 minutes to get to work. I buy paper towels instead of using random leftover take-out napkins. I actually care about home décor.

I’m not sure why I always felt like I was hanging on by a thread when I lived in New York. Was it because I was so economically strapped? Or did I just perceive the risks to be greater, since I was there on my own? Did I not give the city a chance, because I never really intended to stay there forever anyway? Was I just using the city, without any intention of ever committing?