I was recently invited to Ireland.
A breathtaking offer that most normal women would jump at. The chance to board a plane with a gorgeous man to go to a beautiful country, with rolling hills, and sheep. I really like sheep.
But I am a Yank (as the Irish man constantly reminds me), a New Yorker, which makes me over analytical, and less prone to spontaneity.
Lists are made of why and why I shouldn’t go.
Work usually always makes the top of the list (because it pays my bills, and I am, well, in my career).
Even something as a simple call from my friend Felicia bodes consideration.
Felicia and I are rollin’ partners during the spring and summertime, so I knew it was a sign of spring when she texted me “At the Johnson’s having a drink. Come join me.”
My thought process was something like this:
Hairdresser? Or Cocktail? Cocktail? Or Hairdresser?
It looked like rain, so cocktails won out.
As Felicia and I hadn’t seen each other in a minuet we had to do the obligatory catch up.
“The catch up” with Flea always involves her yelling “NO WAY!” While hitting me. While I answer her with “TOTALLY.” While rubbing whatever body part she has just hit.
I haven’t been to the Johnsons since the fall time; it was good to see familiar faces in a place that has the best happy hour drink special in town. While Flea downed PBR’s I opted for margaritas and we were slowly joined by a gang of girls that regaled each other in our new affairs and gave the newest updates on jobs, and new adventures.
After ending happy hour properly at the Johnsons we had down to the Johnson’s sister bar: St. Jerome’s.
As I threw down my credit card to get the first round (apparently I got the second and third rounds too…ouch) the bartender and I did shots of patron and talked about the idea of more freedom to travel, less responsibilities, and warm weather.
“It’s something you’ve got to do Maya. It will open your world up to you. Sometimes, you just have to put work on the back burner, and your life on the front.” He said as we both shot our second round of patron.
That’s the thing about living in NY. It is like peter pan’s playground, you never have to grow up, but you can’t live here unless you work very hard in a grown up manner (or are supported by one). I guess us Yanks work really hard here; maybe too hard. It’s the concrete jungle where our shamans come in the form of tattooed bartenders that pour a mean drink.
