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  • Writer's pictureTaina

Stepping out of the routine

Half a selfie while I’m out at a conference.

Today I traded my converse for cute ballet flats. Instead of a tank top with a subtle literary reference, I wore a pinstripe vest, and pallazo pants. There was a blazer involved. I kissed my children goodbye this morning, and texted about how much I miss them. I do.

All the same.

It’s nice tonight. The weather in New York is gorgeous. Balmy, yet somehow breezy. Your sweat beads up on your upper lip, and beneath your boobs, but you don’t really care. Or at least, I don’t. My pace is quicker here. Even under the burden of a heavy backpack, and a rolly suitcase, I walk just a little faster.

Tonight I put on my favorite BoHo dress–way too long without heels, but the extra fabric makes me feel like Carrie Bradshaw.

NYC is a blur. Taken on my midnight walk.

My posture is straighter here. I am confident. I am doing something I am good at. It isn’t brain surgery, or a high profile litigation, but I am at ease in these skills. I’ve been at them since I was fourteen–I’d better be.

Tonight I told stories, and drank expensive prosseco cocktails. I wore eyeliner I learned how to apply on Pinterest. I got to talk about my novel to people who were really interested, and don’t already know every detail of the plot.

Even the crazy worry about what will become of my daughter’s hair in my absence tomorrow morning is delicious.

Tonight I took a walk–just around the block. Thirty-fourth street is busy enough for me to feel safe even at almost one in the morning. As I walked up Eighth Avenue, back towards my just the right sized hotel room, I saw the Empire State Building in all its glory. There’s something so tantalizing about New York City, especially at night. There’s something that calls deep into my soul. The lights, the hustle and bustle, the non-stop traffic, the wafting scents of street foods intermingling, the stumbling drunks whose stage of dress are never surprising despite the varied hours– it’s an intoxicating concoction. Its refreshing to the soul.

Tonight I’ll sleep alone, and set a sleep timer on the television. It will be lonely. There will be no reassuring sleep sounds of my children in the next rooms. There will be no warm arms  around me when I wake up in the morning. No breakfast in the living room or hurried trips to school. Instead there will be heavy backpacks, and fees for baggage check. There will be awkward moments standing in the middle of the street trying to distinguish the cabs with passengers from those ready to pick me up, because the sun is too bright to see the illuminated numbers. There will be a final day of foundation, and eyeshadow, and smudged eyeliner. There will be blisters on tired feet, and sore muscles from heaving about possessions. Tomorrow there will only be reminders of why this trade only happens three days out of every year. As much as I love the concoction, the confidence, and the ballet flats, there is truly no place like home, and no job like Mom.

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