A Crack in the Wall

For my entire New York life I hunkered down thinking to myself, “Just get through this.” Whatever it was – jobs I hated, boys not calling, crippling loneliness – there was nothing to do but hang on. I refused to let the city get the better of me. It made me strong. But it covered me a tight protective shell that made breathing difficult. Now that I am home again, it's starting to crack bit by bit.

Last night Matt and I rode our bikes to El Coyote so we could have as many margaritas as we wanted without drinking and driving. When I first suggested it, Matt looked at me like I’d asked him to walk barefoot through the subway. But once we were on the ride, the warm wind on our skin, he seemed to love it. And on the way home, after a dinner of enchiladas, heaps of fresh cooked chips, guacamole and carnitas, I felt alive and free and like I had gotten away with breaking the rules as we pedaled through the dark the three blocks home.

Today, I was late for work and I didn’t care.

This afternoon, after a brief stint at the gym, I lay down on the grass in the sun to stretch and meditate. I didn’t mind that the grass was itchy or that I might have looked silly.

Slow steps toward letting myself breathe through the cracks in the armor, toward living a life not just hunkered down.