For many of you, you have been witness to my co-dependent relationship with New York City.  

No doubt you have heard my endless complaints about her.  Her constant mood swings, her never-ending subway disruptions, her immature refusal to pick up after herself.   And you have probably also heard me sing her praises.  How she took me out and spun me around and revealed her most exquisite self.  From cherry blossoms in Brooklyn to Cherry Jones on Broadway.  From Carnegie Deli to Carnegie Hall.  She never ceased to delight and amaze.   When she smiled on me, I became utterly intoxicated.  When she ignored me, life was on ice.

I met her a little more than ten years ago on Halloween night.  She was dressed up and boozy with a parade of masked men behind her.  Her energy was addictive.  She was the leader of the pack, the entertainer, the spark plug.  She was, by far, the coolest girl in whole school.

And here I was.  Showing up on her doorstep asking for a sublet.  I had one suitcase.  One pair of sneakers.  One highlighted and heavily notated Riverside Shakespeare book.  I had nothing.  No job.  No home.  No attachments.  No clue.

I was sweet though.  I was wide-eyed and pudgy as I strutted Midtown in my Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls.  I dyed my hair from a box and tied it back with a pink rubber band.  I was told not to go above 80^th Street, so I didn’t.  I was told not to go below 14^th Street, so I didn't.  I was told to look ahead, look like I belong, and to get a bikini wax as soon as humanly possible.  I was naïve and tender and lost and impressionable.  All I wanted was to have her look my way, to have her give a shit. 

And she did.  Finally.  When she wanted to.  We fell in love somewhere in the late 90’s and I vowed to finally unpack my boxes, sign a lease, and take a trip to IKEA.  I stocked up on bagels and beer and those saran-wrapped deli fig newtons and I told my mother to stop asking when I was coming home.   I was going to be here for a while.

And so we lived together, New York and I, side by side.  We lived through waitressing jobs and temp jobs and what-the heck-am-I-doing-here jobs.  Through Christmas tree lightings, marathons, Mets games, and the Gates.  Through pasta in Little Italy, rice pudding in Soho, Indian food in Jackson Heights, and pretzels in the park.  Through unemployment lines, audition lines, and those unbelievably long Trader Joe lines.  Through broken down subways and broken into apartments. Through shows and reviews and late night tacos from a truck and commutes from Queens and making new friends.  I watched as her towers fell down that tragic day and I held her tight.  “We’re in this together”, I told her.  And I meant it.

But now I don’t know.  In the morning light, I roll over and I take a good long look at her.  Her skin is ashen.  Her lips are chapped.  Last night’s mascara all over the pillow.  She’s a wreck.

And we’ve both seen bad times.  She’s seen me at my most broken- sitting on someone’s stoop after high hopes and higher expectations were carelessly dashed like a cigarette butt.  She’s seen me be ignored, stepped on, heart broken, and hit by a car.  I’ve been prickly and pissed and painfully arrogant.  I have been no party to be with either.  I know that.

But something has changed.  At our core.  And I’m afraid it may be irreversible.

I don’t know.  Maybe it’s because I’m tired and I can’t take the five floor walk-ups anymore.  Maybe it’s because I read too many magazines and take the quiz in the back and it tells me it will only get worse.  Or maybe it’s because I just can’t talk to her anymore.  “I can’t listen to your silly little dreams”, she says, “can’t you see I have bigger fish to fry?” 

And let’s face it, she does.

“It’s not you, it’s me”, I‘ll tell her.  But that wont be the whole truth.

The truth is, that in the silence of our apartment and the phone not ringing anymore, I had some time to think.  Some time to explore.  And I traveled way outside her five boroughs.  And I found someone. 

And she’s not better than New York by any means.  She doesn’t have the class, the charm, the bodegas, the greasy spoons.  But she is warm and smells nice and is just, well, the complete opposite of what I’m used to.

I met her at her Trader Joes.  It was sunny and pleasant and whispered in my ear, “look, no lines”.  I was immediately smitten and went out and bought the first GPS system I could find.  I followed her everywhere.

The new girl smiles a lot and likes to go out to breakfast.  She wears yellow tops with skinny jeans and flip-flops.  She winks and flirts and sleeps in and does yoga.  She’s cappuccinos, and cucumber scrubs, and Corona-lights, and all for chilling out. 

She’s a little flighty, but I don’t mind.  She’s a little slow, but I can deal with that too.  She doesn’t know how to drive yet in the “event of rain”- which we are working on- but even that rolls off my back within an hour or two. 

Maybe it’s her high elevation.  Or her high attitude.  Or the fact that I can spread my arms out in any direction and not bump into anyone.  But I just feel better with her.  More relaxed somehow.

She doesn’t nag, she doesn’t yell, she doesn’t wake me up in the middle of the night.  She doesn’t hound me with flyers, she doesn’t curse, and she isn’t obsessed with the stock market.  Instead she twitters and tweets and blogs and reads Variety.  She eats Tofutti in the middle of February and likes things to always remain a little sunny.    

And honestly, those simple little things are enough for me right now.  It’s enough for me to wake up next to her and hear the birds chirp.  It’s enough to smell honeysuckle in the winter and see the stars at night.  It’s enough for me to wake up three hours later than the City that never sleeps and go to bed early.  Because I’m tired.  And I’m worn out.  And I can’t pretend like this is working anymore.  For either of us.

I’m not sure how I am going to leave just yet.  Probably in the morning after Wall Street has rung it’s bell.   When she’s busy and buzzing, opening her maxed out emails and trying to pay for her maxed out credit cards.  I will sip my coffee in the other room, savor my last pumpernickel bagel with cream cheese and jam, and adoringly watch Pat Kirin read me the morning papers on NY1 one last time before slipping out.

I will throw on my over-weighted backpack one last time.  I will swipe my overpriced metro card one last time.  And I will do my best to bury my broken heart as I wave her goodbye from the over-sized windows at JFK.

I don’t know how to navigate through this departure just yet, but I will learn.  Step-by-step, road-by-road, highway-by-highway.  It’s time for a change.  And it’s time I followed my own inner GPS system.  And moved on.