Nothing Personal

The High Life

When I get home to my apartment after dark the first thing I do is close the window shade with righteous indignation.  I just know all those perverts are waiting over there across the alley, waiting to watch me change.  The nerve!  

But now I’m cat-sitting in a place that has a living room with two gigantic windows and I find that even when I’m in my undies I don’t want them totally shuttered.  I keep the blinds angled to give me some privacy without totally obliterating the small squares of light suggesting the existence of many other windows, many other buildings, the luminous “many others” that make this difficult city worth the trouble.

At home I let my computer shuffle the music.  Here I pick from a collection of CDs purchased by people who have more schooling than I do, have danced in better companies than I have, people who have successful careers and children who win awards for politeness and for soccer.  They own an upright piano and keep it in their two-story apartment in a great part of Manhattan.  Their wedding invitations were hand-written, her dress was designed by a friend who works in fashion.  Their round marble kitchen table seats six comfortably, their living room couch could sleep two.  Their fireplace works.  Their groceries are from Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s.  At home I eat canned veggies and popcorn.  Here I eat leftover homemade penne a la vodka and miniature organic chocolate chip cookies.

I would never eat in bed here, like I do at home.  

There are two bathrooms here, one downstairs and one up.  There are two high-quality TVs, two nice-sized bedrooms, two silent, narrow cats.

This place is like life in New York as it appears on TV.  It feels how life is supposed to feel, like comfortable success, like good mornings and good nights.  It’s a place where elegance gets undressed and power relaxes, where values and principles can just be themselves.   There’s a list of chores for the children to perform each week, there’s a subscription to Women’s Wear Daily and the New York Times.

Nobody is waiting across the alley, hungry to feast on the image of my naked body.  Here there is no such thing as vulnerable nudity.

I don’t like it here for the same reason I hate taking vacations.  I have to cross quite a chasm to get here, it’s hard not to look down and once I do it takes a lot of work to un-remember how far I am from living the dream.