Jill Knapp - What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?

After only three months of living in New York City, to pursue a Master’s Degree at NYU, I learned that was, in fact, not the case.

I considered myself lucky, being able to live in an apartment this nice. The deep-mahogany floors, paired with the brand-new appliances in the kitchen were the envy of every young New Yorker south of 23rd Street. This is not how a newcomer is supposed to live. A newly appointed Manhattan-ite should live in a dingy studio apartment up on East 105th Street, or share a confined two-bedroom place with four or five roommates down in Chinatown. No, a new-to-the-town, twenty-two year-old girl, would not normally have the privilege of a washer and dryer in the building, and perish the thought – enough closet space to fit nearly all of her clothing.

Nick’s apartment, on the other hand, was anything but pristine. It was located further downtown on the Lower East Side. Sandwiched in between a bodega and beat-up old park, Nick’s apartment building was old, bleak, and proverbially falling apart. I felt a pang of guilt over how difficult it must be to live somewhere like that, and how he hadn’t had the option of taking out extra student loans to put toward rent like I did. He never seemed to mind, though; said it built “character”.

My new life, however, in this very spacious and immaculate West Village apartment had made me into a caricature of myself. Being that I was twenty-two, and living in the greatest city on earth, I took every chance I could get to go out and improve my social life, which unfortunately included improving my alcohol tolerance.

Today, on this blurry autumn morning, I awoke with not only the usual Monday morning hangover, but also an intense burning feeling in my throat. It got worse every time I swallowed, and finished itself off with a dry and uncontrollable cough.

“Damn,” I said aloud, to no one in particular. I let out a yawn and then allowed myself a wide stretch in my tiny, twin-sized bed. I squinted at the clock on my bedside table, and uttered a low groan.

I considered going back to sleep, but after hitting the snooze twice already, I knew I had to get out of bed. Even though my time window for showering today had passed, I still had to make myself look presentable and walk to class.

I slowly walked out of my bedroom, passed my roommates’ room (the two of them shared the larger, master bedroom), and stumbled feverishly into my kitchen. Exhausted from my journey, I put my head in my hands and leaned over the counter top. The flawless sparkle in the grain of the brand-new, deep-green granite made a mockery of me. The stone was so shiny that if I stared hard enough, I could make out a blurred, reflected version of my face. I knew I couldn’t afford this apartment. I had justified this relocation from my parent’s suburban home by telling myself that when I was finished with school, I would be making so much money that my student loans would be a thing of the past in no time. I pushed myself off of the granite and figured it was about time to make good on that promise.

My self-loathing was interrupted by the unmistakable clanking of my roommate’s heels.

“Good morning,” Christina beamed, as she reached right over me and grabbed the last apple.

Christina was one of those girls who were naturally gorgeous, even when she’d just woken up. In my hung-over, and quickly accelerating sick state I was extra aware, and disgusted, by how bright-eyed and effortless she looked. Not to mention she had already showered and was heading out the door while I was running twenty minutes late. We usually woke up around the same time to get ready to go to class and I couldn’t find the energy to fight her for the first shower today.

“Is there coffee?” was all I could muster up, as I fumbled around the fridge for bottled water. I yawned again and rubbed my eyes, leaning on the counter for support.

Before she could answer me, I noticed the time and frantically ran into my bedroom to get dressed for class, nearly taking Christina out in the process. I had realized early in the semester that this was not the class to be late to. The professor was a notorious hard ass and had actually called out my friend Olivia for checking the time on her cell phone last week, embarrassing her in front of the entire cohort. Scarred by the memory, I quickly ran a brush through my hair while simultaneously applying my foundation. A few minutes later, I was good to go (well, good enough).

I grabbed my purse and yelled “Bye!” to no one in particular, slamming the door behind me. As soon as I got into the elevator, my phone vibrated. I grabbed it from my purse, desperately hoping it was one of my friends telling me class was cancelled, but instead it was a text message from my boyfriend Nicholas.

It read, “Can’t wait 2 C U tomorrow honey, I’m counting down hrs!”

I dropped the phone back into my bag and exited the elevator on the ground floor. I started feeling a quick pang of guilt for ignoring the text, but Nicholas would understand how busy I was and I would re-cap my day with him, in full detail tonight, on the phone. It was comforting to know I could go about my day without having to check in with anyone twenty times, and that he had his own life too. Not to mention we had an undeniable chemistry between us that seemed to have stood the test of time. Or at least the past couple of years. I smiled to myself as I pictured his wide, soulful eyes, his ever-present second-day stubble (which I always referred to as, Oops! I didn’t realize I’m so sexy, stubble) and his strong, well-toned arms that just always managed to keep their firmness, no matter how many times he missed the gym. Combine all of that with my favorite thing he did, the way he traced my lips with his finger right before he was about to kiss me, and I was convinced I was in a perfect relationship. I let out a breathy sigh and let the warmth wash over me as I thought about how lucky I was to have such a great guy in my life. Sexy, caring, and smart. What more could you ask for?

Thunder cracking above my head interrupted this solitary pleasant thought. When I got outside I was greeted by a blanket of humid rain and I had, of course, left my umbrella upstairs. I glanced back at the elevator doors that were quickly closing. Since I lived on 18th floor of my apartment building, I rationalized that I had already gone too far to turn around and made my way to 6th Avenue in the pouring rain.

My sneakers did nothing to protect me against the river-sized potholes littering the streets of New York. Each passing minute was more disgusting than the last as I told myself I was going to be sitting with wet socks for the next two hours.

By the time I got to the school, I was drenched and feeling even more morose than when I had woken up. I darted into the ladies’ room to use the hand dryer to dry off at least to a comfortable level. When I opened the door, I sighed. There was a line of two girls in front of me, ignoring my soaked state, and gabbing on about having drinks at Crocodile Lounge later tonight. I started to shiver and one of them gave me an uncomfortable side-look. They finally decided to leave and I bent down to fit under the small, inefficient dryer. Feeling a little homeless, I flipped my head over, figuring my hair was the most important thing to get try. Then I reached down, pulled off my sneakers, and let the hot air run over my argyle socks. It was pointless, those babies were done for. I tossed them in the trash, deciding I’d be more comfortable without them.

Two more girls walked into the bathroom, heading straight to the mirrors. I recognized them, but not enough to say hi and start small-talk. Definitely not while I was looking like a drowned rat. After a few more minutes under the hand dryer, I ran my fingers through my puffed-up curls to help smooth them down. Reaching into my purse, I opted for a quick refreshing slick of clear lip-gloss, and a smudge of black eye-liner for good measure. I thought I looked normal enough to start my day.