Admitting Defeat

I've now been living in New York City for six short months. Though time has flown by, as it inevitably does in the city that never sleeps (and especially for a near-nocturnal being), I finally feel like I've begun to find my niche. In fact, yesterday I experienced a sort of epiphany just before I descended below street-level into the downtown subway station at 42nd Street and Madison Avenue.

As I trudged up the wet sidewalk, sloshing through the wintry mix of icy slush and murky puddles, the hem of my jeans soaked in the absence of galoshes, the froth of my venti skim chai latte gurgling out of the top of the Starbucks lid and spilling onto my copy of the Monday New York Times, which was strategically folded so as to reveal only the crossword puzzle and tucked under my arm, balancing me as I sent a text message with my opposite hand, something occurred to me: I am a New Yorker.

What's worse: I'm a cliché.