There’s something about making a really intricate grocery list. When you write out all your favorite cheeses, you know, the complicated ones none of your friends can pronounce (like roquefort) and items that make you smile like spicy garlic, sweet shallots and tangy San Marzano tomatoes. I adore cooking; I absolutely love everything about it. I’ll make a home cooked meal, even if I get home from work late. I’m there, in the kitchen, thinly slicing zucchini for a vegetarian take on an Italian pasta dish. But that’s not all. I love spending my Saturdays deep cleaning and making my room nice and ready for the next week. I also love hosting and showing off my culinary skills even if it’s for a first date. Trust me, I’ve done that before and they totally don’t deserve it. Who’s got time for bar crawls and dancing on tables while shaking my butt in a sequin mini when there’s a West Elm catalog to peruse and gluten-free pancakes with homemade blueberry glaze to make. What does all that mean? Well…
I’ve domesticated too early.
I had dinner with two friends the other night who both live in great parts of Manhattan. They both live this great life; this great New York City life. And I can’t help but feel like I’m in suburbia, living the suburban life, even though I’m a stones throw away from the city steps. I never go out in the city, the only thing on my brain is what I need to pick up from the market to make dinner for one. “Getting out of the house” consists of walking my pup an extra block or two. It’s no wonder I’m not meeting any man candy. My only options these days are the men serving me my weekend latte or the non-available eye candies with babies. Damn.
So here’s the deal. I’m giving Long Island City one more year (or maybe two). Based off a recommendation of two wise friends and if nothing works here in LIC, I’m moving back into the city. That’s right, all that shit I talked- never moving into Manhattan is turning into a big fib. I suppose it’s true that I’m not living the Manhattan dream. I literally just moved my suburban life to NYC and that’s not what I wanted. I’m 25, not 35. There’s no reason I should of settled into a fully domesticated lifestyle. I don’t have a reason to: no kids, no husband. Plus, I should be embracing this era before it’s fucking long gone. Sequin mini, where the hell are you?
As my wise ex once said, I’m a housewife, no husband. Ain’t that the truth?
“Dive bars, here she comes. Single men, get ready. Christina’s liver, prepare yourself. And Christina, good luck ol’ chap.”
-My domesticated self