10:31 AM EST
I Don’t Care If You Don’t Care
I’m from New York. I know you didn’t ask, but I figured you’d want to know anyway.
See, this is a problem I’ve recently developed since moving to a new state. I find myself injecting the fact that I am from New York into conversations that have nothing to do with one’s state of origin. It doesn’t matter what I’m talking about. I have an unprecedented talent for starting off any sentence with the words, “Well, I’m from New York…” especially when it is almost completely irrelevant.
Talking to the librarian while signing up for a library card: “Do you have proof of your address in Loudoun County?” she asks. “Well, I’m actually from New York (Wink, wink. Nudge, Nudge. Talk to me about New York.) and here’s an envelop my mom sent me with my new address on it.” She didn’t care.
Talking to the lady at the farmer’s market who started to tell me about her daughter who was coming home from New York for the weekend: “Oh my god, New York! I’m from New York! (Please, talk to me about New York!)” I said. Not a chance.
Talking to the instructor at the yoga studio: He asked me if I was interested in signing up for a package of classes. “Well, I’m from New York (Isn’t New York SO cool!?), I just moved here and I’m not sure if I definitely want to do it yet.” Nothing.
But, the day that I ordered lunch from the German restaurant and randomly interjected into my conversation with the cashier that I was from New York, I found out the secret to being from New York. Only people who are from New York will care if you are from New York.
“Get out! Get outta here,” he said as he lifted up his arm to show me his New York Yankees tattoo. He didn’t have to say anything else. We proceeded to have a thirty minute long conversation. About New York, of course.