Being Pushed

I live in New York City, but sometimes I forget. Every once in a while, I find myself on the other side of the island looking out toward the Manhattan skyline in complete awe that this giant, glowing planet of a city is where I live. It's like when I'm in it, I do my thing and forget that I'm doing my thing in the greatest city in the world. That's kind of a big deal, and when I realize it every couple of months or so, I get totally freaked out.

This feeling that I experience of exhilaration and sheer terror is like being pushed on a swing when you're a kid. You keep asking to be pushed more and more, and then at some point, someone pushes you so high that the chains of the swing aren't tight anymore and your stomach drops and you suddenly wish you hadn't asked to be pushed so high. You feel like you're going to fall or throw up or die. You want to get off. 

That's how I felt the other night at 2:30am as I took a $35 cab ride over the Brooklyn Bridge into the monstrosity that is Manhattan. For a brief moment, I wished that I hadn't asked to be pushed so high. I wanted to get off. I wanted to go home. But I survived the anxiety and the cab ride (both great feats), and came home to am empty apartment with white Christmas lights and a leftover burrito. I played Simon and Garfunkel as I got ready for bed, and remembered right before the lights went out that it's good to be pushed, even if it is a little scary sometimes.