I always thought I’d be afraid of flying. I’m not sure why exactly – I’ve never feared heights and I’ve used every opportunity I could to try things that go fast: like jet skis, speedboats and sportscars. I went bungee jumping and have plans to go sky diving this summer – but yet, the first time I flew (to NYC from NC for my summer internship in 2008), I was disappointed when my tummy didn’t do flip flops at takeoff.
I thought “having a tiny fear of flying” sounded cool for some reason. Much in the same way I thought having a somewhat good singing voice would make me one of the many hopefuls for American Idol, though if we’re real honest, I only sound halfway decent in the shower and in the car, only in the company of myself. (Though Mr. Possibility tells me I have a “sweet’ singing voice and can hold a tune, but if you heard him sing, you wouldn’t trust his recommendation).
I guess I wanted to be known for something. Be the girl who did this or felt this way or had this kind of talent. For whatever reason, it’s appealing to me to have a title – “My friend Lindsay, she’s this incredible artist. You should see what she paints” or “God, my girlfriend, Lindsay, she’s so adorable when she flies, she grabs my hand and squeezes her eyes so tight, she can barely open them when the seatbelt light goes out.”
But no, I never really thought I was anything all that special. Sure, I have preferences and specified interests: I love puppies, not cats; I hate pickles, but I’ll eat them fried; I coo at babies and can’t stand cauliflower, not based on its taste, but because I think it looks like broccoli gone bad. I stand like a flamingo when my legs are tired and though it isn’t the most becoming quality, it is best I stay away from cheese at all costs. I love mayonnaise on pretzels, it is almost physically impossible for me not to date a guy I can’t sport sky-high heels with, and I’m addicted to all things Italian: men, food, wine, you name it.
Growing up, though, none of these things never quite mattered. But then I moved to New York and I started visiting the South for vacations and holidays, I realized that I actually do have something special about me. I am rather unique and my friend E was the one who predicted my out-shining quality. You see, I’m fromNew York now, not from North Carolina.
Each time I come home, someone – a friend, family member or parent – doesn’t introduce me as Lindsay anymore, but as “Lindsay. FromNew York.” Now really, I’m not Northern and I really don’t want to be. In fact, when I first met Mr. Possibility, I thought he had a speech impediment because his accent was so thick. But even though I don’t mispronounce “car”, I’m not the biggest fan of bagels, and I don’t curse every other word, when I return home, I suddenly become a New Yorker, though the city doesn’t endorse me yet.
Apparently it’s such an anomaly for a blue-eyed, freckled petite little miss to transplant herself from pearls and babies to resumes and stilettos, that as soon as I changed my address and my voter registration, I became Lindsay New York.
But ya know what, as outlandish as it is, I don’t mind. I have always wanted to be known for something and if that something happens to be my admiration of NYC, that’s not a bad trait to claim. I guess when you’ve loved something for decades, it does become part of your DNA. It does become part of what makes you, you. It does become the thing you miss, even when you’re lying in your childhood bed watching your possibility chat with your dad over beers.
Where you’re from may be the thing that makes up the pieces of who you are, the bundles of lessons and dreams that give you morals and ideas – but it’s the place you go, the people you meet, and the stories you tell from that place and the person you bring home that change you. It’s what makes up your future. And maybe it’s not as interesting as a killer voice or as endearing as someone who is afraid of climbing, but it’s me.
You know, me, Lindsay New York.