If you’ve ever wondered what the quintessential New York experience is, I am here to enlighten you. New Yorkers approach life with a particular nonchalance, as if the magical and wondrous encounters they have are no more blog worthy than the discovery of $2 grandes at Starbucks after 2 PM.
For example, if a New Yorker were to encounter the following situation, she would respond in a most particular way. While meandering through Central Park, dreaming of a certain $2 caffeinated drink, said city dweller would suddenly receive a dreaded text: The free DAILY SHOW in the Park performance is full, not a seat left in the house. Of course, being a New Yorker (and hence, incapable of taking “no” for an answer), she determines– with the support of her two fellow Wellesley women– to make the trek to the stage anyway. And then perhaps flash an elbow or two at the security guards if they grant her and her posse access to the performance.
However, before she can violate all sorts of Jewish modesty laws, she is bombarded by an entirely different group of security guards shouting, “Turn the flash off your cameras. If you don’t know how, give it to us, and we’ll do it for you.” She surmises quickly that the situation is much graver than she suspected. There is another celebrity in town, and he is none other than her first boy band crush: Justin Timberlake. Of course, being a suave urbanite with an inability to face her past, she navigates her friends away from the mayhem and turns to the nearest Starbucks, never to encounter the celebrity again. All the while she mutters under her breath about the unfortunate pattern of singers-turned-actors who in actuality can do neither very well.
In other words, a genuine New Yorker deals with the everyday celebrity interruption by immediately turning in the opposite direction of the camera. And then praying to whatever deity she believes in that her face does not appear on the cover of next day’s tabloid under the caption “Googoo for Gaga” or some such alliterative nonsense.
Of course, having spent a year abroad, my New York sensibilities were, well, lacking. I became the stereotypical fifteen year old tourist, who upon seeing a celebrity, starts to rummage through her purse, in search of her digital camera– hoping to catch a glimpse of the former boy band star now known as Mr. Sexyback. (As in it was gone, and he brought it back.) With a group of Spanish tourists thrusting up against me, I stood beside the barricade, camera in toe– eagerly anticipating the emergence of the man-once-boy who reaffirmed my heterosexuality. After nearly 30 minutes of unadulterated perspiration, JT appeared in a classy little button down and jeans. Photo evidence below.
Before closing, I would like to add that this entry was copy-edited by my fellow Wellesley woman and current beloved roommate, Torie. It’s good practice for when she becomes a hot-shot literary agent. Though she warns me, she will only produce quality literature; in other words, no Twilight sequels or prequels, please.