What I Learned Traveling the World in a Giant Brain Costume

I want YOU…to ask for my consent before you fondle my gray matter!

Photo by Roberto Ricciuti

Oh hey there friends, random people who follow my blog, and my Mom!

I know it’s been a while since I’ve stretched the writing muscles, but *ahem* I’ve been a lil’ busy! Oh you know, the usual: performing comedy, sippin’ on overpriced coffee and alcohol in different countries, walking around town in a giant foam brain costume ̶

Right. About that last one.

As I would assume at least some of you weirdos who follow me know, I’ve spent the past month parading around Scotland wearing my custom brain to promote my one-woman show at the famous Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

I know, I know. What in the actual fuck.

And it’s true, I got a lot of “wtf” looks while schlepping my gray matter up and down those cobblestone streets at all hours of the day (calm down, MOM, the taxis there are bigger and could fit my brain inside and I always, always got a taxi home past 10PM).

I’ll admit I was a bit of a freak-magnet.

I mean it’s not every day you see a lady waltzing around town in a giant brain. And if it is then you clearly live on another planet and I’m purchasing a rocket ship and going there immediately.

This lil’ baby is turning five years old next month, can you believe it? It feels like just yesterday that the words “I want a cool Halloween costume” escaped my lips in front of my architect father and crafty mother shortly after recovering from an invasive craniotomy.

When you survive something like that, you say all kinds of crazy shit.

Honestly, I was thinking like a cool T-Shirt. Maybe a hat with some funky noodles popping out of it, you know, something fun for the kids.

Oh no.

The OG shot, taken by my Dad as we walked into my PT on Halloween.

What followed was a civil war between my parents about how to make a costume for such an occasion. What do you make the girl who survived brain surgery? A giant foam brain, obviously. And when it came time for the festival, it was the first thing on my packing list.

It’s made it’s rounds at Halloween parties, bars, and hospitals aplenty. But never has the brain been on an adventure quite like this.

Of course, the first question was…how the fuck do you ship a giant foam brain to Scotland?

A hockey bag. Duh.

Getting it home was a different story, but we’ll get to that headache later.

Here are a choice few things I’ve learned in my past two months of performing, traveling, and frightening small children while wearing a giant brain costume. Enjoy.

I’m never really “ready” for anything.

In true Mimi-style, I did not prepare for this epic journey as much as I could have. I did a lot, to be sure. But the fact still remains that I submitted a paragraph about a show that didn’t exist to the largest theater festival in the world. That paragraph was accepted.

And then I shit my pants.

I’d never written a “one-woman” show before. I’m not talking stand-up either. I’m talking like theater.

That level of perceived prestige really scared the poop out of me.

Was I qualified to be on a stage for an entire hour with nothing but my story? How does this work? Will I have to memorize all those lines? Do I get a water break?

I actually hadn’t even seen any one-woman shows before.

So I went and saw Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag.

And then I shit my pants again.

It became clear to me in that theater that this person really knew what they were doing. And I did not. But I had approximately 90 days to figure it out.

I “finished” my show on the airplane ride over to Scotland.

And even then it wasn’t done and I wasn’t ready.

My show was about twenty minutes too long and I hadn’t memorized any of the lines.

I’d performed it once in New York before leaving to twelve people (more on audience size later!) and did well but looked at my script pretty much the whole time.

None of that shit mattered in the end though because I found my way.

I marked up my script until it was basically just a bunch of black scribbles on the page. I booked out a rehearsal room and rehearsed to myself the three days leading up to my first show. I marked it up more. I panicked. I held my script on stage the first week.

And then slowly, day after day, I needed the script less and less, until finally, I chucked it in my bag backstage.

I wasn’t ready. You never fucking are. Get over it and do it anyway.

It’s always good to lower expectations.

I know that sounds like something I wouldn’t say, but hear me out for a sec.

I didn’t go to Fringe thinking I’d be the next Phoebe Waller-Bridge. She started out there, as a lot of celebrities have. Her one-woman show Fleabag was turned into a hit TV show and propelled her into big bad-ass movie roles and international fame.

As much as I wanted to entertain that fantasy for myself, I didn’t want to go there. That was a lot of pressure for someone who was literally still completing the show the day before the first performance.

After doing some light research and hearing from other performers that Fringe was a slog, I decided I would just survive it.

On a very basic level, I would be alive by the end of it.

That sounds pretty apocalyptic, but you should read these Fringe blogs these days, my god.

And they’re all true.

“It’s expensive.”

“It’s hard.”

“It’s rewarding.”

“It’s not rewarding.”

“It was totally worth it.”

“It ruined my life.”

All these things and more have been said about the Fringe and they happened to all of us. Sometimes I felt all these things at the same time.

“And so it goes.”

I did better than I thought (but actually).

My plan was to survive, right. And in my opinion I barely hauled my decrepit bones out of the trenches.

It turns out I did exceptionally better than I realized at the time.

The average Fringe audience is three people. Yes. 3. 1-2-3 human beings.

Why so wee?

8,000 shows and 500 venues in the course of a month, that’s why so wee.

So the struggle wasn’t so much getting accepted to the festival, but actually bringing a crowd and also everything else.

And it was exceptionally difficult for me considering my “venue” and time slot, arguably the worst combination to exist in Fringe.

I put “venue” in quotes because it was actually just a fucking warehouse built in god knows what century with sewage issues and faulty lighting. And I’m not talking the cool, hipster kind either.

The first time I hauled my brain up to my room in the building I thought someone had surely been murdered there. If not, multiple people. Maybe this was where those cults all committed suicide at the same time in the 70s.

It was fucking bleak.

And here was the glorious location of my one-woman show. In a squat little room with a makeshift stage with a gaping hole in the back (that I promptly fell off of), forty dusty old office chairs, and two desk laps for stage lights.

This is surely where dreams (and people) go to die, I thought.

My first show I had an audience of 4. The next day I had 10. And then for the duration of the run I had anywhere from 2-8 people until my last show in which I had 15.

I really thought this was a failure until I remembered the average.

And considering my “venue” I was actually shocked when anyone came in at all without turning and running in the opposite direction.

One time the lights in the whole building were still off when I came in ten minutes before showtime. I opened the door to the room to find a 20-something couple happily waiting for me in pitch darkness.

“HOW DID YOU FIND ME HERE.” I said like I was on some true crime show.

I also got two 4-star reviews, a “Very Good Show” rating, features in two medical journals, and a mention in a newsletter for the biggest brain injury group in the UK. I got compared to Amy Poehler.

And I never had to cancel a show due to lack of a crowd.

The “venue” did close down for a day due to a backup of sewage…ohhhh THAT was fun! Try explaining that to a hopeful audience member!

“Hey do you want to see my show tomorrow?! You can’t see it today because they are currently pumping literal turds out of the building but I promise it will be all sorted tomorrow! I just got a 4-star review that says I’m charming AF!”

It took me a while to see just how well I did. It certainly didn’t feel that way. I kind of doubted Queen Amy had ever performed in such a grim place. I brought 72 books to Scotland thinking I’d sell out no problem. I sold 15. Again, that’s actually fucking great. But playing the numbers game can really make you question your worth and success.

I also had an epic stress-induced meltdown about two and a half weeks into the festival. It was after our family dog Tucker passed away rather unexpectedly and I was having a really hard time.

Keep in mind that Tucker is actually in my show. Multiple times.

I even impersonate him.

And I had to do that shit every fucking day knowing he was gone without bursting into tears.

I’m a god damn champion.

But finally I broke. And when I did, Mom and Dad were on Skype to listen to me blubber about how hard it was and that it wasn’t fair and he wasn’t supposed to die and nobody was giving a shit about me or my “art” in my stupid fucking “venue” every damn day ̶

I was crying so loud that my lovely hosts Laura and Doug came in and asked if I was OK and came to chat with me, bless their fucking hearts.

“Honestly,” Laura said in her posh British accent. “I’m surprised you didn’t break sooner. I’m exhausted and I’m not even in the festival.”

I loved that she said that. It showed me just how resilient I was and am still.

I didn’t just survive. I crushed.

I’m a really fucking good storyteller.

I can’t say I ever felt exceptionally talented at acting at a young age. I certainly never professionally trained or got some fancy degree. I loved the stage, but I never really got the roles I wanted and always felt bitter or jealous about someone else’s level of skill or naturally straight, fluff-free hair.

Well, good news is that when I did my one-woman show the cast was me, myself, and I!

And from what I’ve heard (cuz I obviously haven’t seen a lot myself lol), one-person shows can be utter disasters if the person isn’t at least marginally talented at storytelling, acting, and so on.

I guess it helps that I’ve been writing, telling, and molding this story for five years in as many mediums as is allowed per person*

*How many art-forms are you allowed to dabble in before you sound like a psychopath? I mean, come on, we all know Steve the DJ-podcaster-playwright-clown-poet-chef is out of his damn mind.

When it came time to write the actual script for the show I propped the book up on my knees and went through and basically found all the parts I liked that I thought could look funny on stage. When I was feeling exceptionally lazy I even plagiarized myself (HA…take THAT English teachers of my past!).

But you can’t just read a book on a stage and call it a one-woman show. That’s called a book reading. And those are awful no matter who the fuck you are.

So this required a bit of craftswomanship. And the help of two directors I hired to listen to my really lengthy and confusing script for several weeks until I figured out what the hell I was trying to say (Thank you Neal and Ilana!)

Eventually I did.

And the result was an entire month (except for The Shit Evacuation Day) of performances where I emptied my heart on that “stage” and made people feel things; laughter, tears, hope, fear, all of it.

I did that.

A lot of people wanted to talk to me (and some didn’t).

I wish I would have worn a Go-Pro strapped to my head because man did I get some interactions to write home about!

I wish I could remember all of them. I would say 3 out of every 10 were just drunk people fondling me.

But those other 7/10 tended to very fulfilling interactions.

Lots of therapists. Some nurses. PhD candidates. A science journalist. Terrified or curious children. A pack of about 20 Asians who watched me deliver a ladybug safely off my brain and onto a nearby leaf. It was quite the performance piece, I must say.

But truthfully, I had the most amazing conversations wearing that thing. When drunk dudes weren’t shouting at me that I looked like a giant ballsack, I really had quite a good time.

A lot of people wanted to tell me about their own brain injuries or the injuries of friends or family of theirs. Some had passed. Some survived. All had stories. They wanted to share something with me over this big weird brain. Even though several layers of spray painted foam separated me from these complete strangers, I felt closer to these people than I ever thought possible.

It made schlepping the damn thing around all the time worth it. It really did.

I mean I could have done without the drunk girl grabbing it from the ground behind me and trying to put it on her fucking head, but we’re all just lucky I’m not in a Scottish jail for first-degree murder cuz bitch, YOU TOUCH MY BRAIN I WILL SMACK YOU SO HARD YOU WILL TASTE LAST FRINGE FESTIVAL.

Shipping a giant foam brain to the states while you travel around the world is not cheap.

Ugh.

I don’t want to talk about it, OK.

No really. I said I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT GET OFF MY DICK.

But you know what it was worth it cuz I anticipate being YouTube famous in approximately a few weeks cuz someone finally caught my sexy brain on camera and he’s some big YouTuber with a million followers or some shit.

Cheers.

We made it, Mom and Dad.

Sorry I had to leave the hockey bag in Scotland. I’ll pick out a nice one for Dad and give it to him for Christmas and I promise I won’t also leave that one in Scotland.

Travel is the fuel for the soul.

MmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmIHaveEatenSoMuchFuckingFoodandWineAndBeerOhGodLotsOfBeerAndIRegretNothingggggggg.

I’ve seen some really cool shit. I touched the stones from Outlander, the Direwolves from Game of Thrones, and oddly enough, Neal Patrick Harris.

And outside of the all the usual tourist suspects, I’ve experienced some amazing things in the past few months that have revitalized and simultaneously exhausted me. It’s still a lot to process and I don’t know that I’m fully there yet.

I traveled to 4 countries over the course of 48 days. I’ve been on planes, buses, trains, boats, ferries, bikes, and just today, a motorized scooter around the Eiffel Tower. I had haggis in Scotland, a croissant in France, and choked down a Guinness in Ireland. I’ve danced the “Ceilidh” and given my number to multiple handsome street musicians. I saw Riverdance. I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shakespeare’s Globe theater. I saw Banksy’s artwork. I’ve been rocking the same three outfits since the end of July and still getting cute Instagram pics. I’ve fallen off stages and curbs. I’ve lost and gained weight. I covered a spot of barf on a stairwell with a picture of my own face. I mourned the loss of a furry family member. I made some money and spent some money. I haven’t sent a single god damn email.

I feel fucking amazing.

Got to go now. Been at this cafe near the Eiffel Tower for a bit now and I think it’s high time I find a sandwich and hop back on my lil’ scooter.

Keep traveling. Keep crushing, friends.

On my way to steal yo’ man from 1745…

The Sandwich That Changed My Life: Bliss and Where To Find It

I’m not a big sandwich gal.

I mean don’t get me wrong, they’re great. I just can’t seem to finish a whole one. I always find myself dissecting the second half and pulling out the pieces that I like and leaving the other bits mutilated on the plate.

I don’t know why I do that. That’s kind of weird.

Anyway, the reason I tell you this is because a sandwich changed my life.

This past March I spent a week in Spain and a day in England. This was truly a magical week of visiting breathtaking cathedrals, eating yummy Marzipan shaped like cathedrals, and long walks around ancient architecture.

And while this was surely life changing, the most memorable part of this trip was actually something very simple. Eating a sandwich.

Let me provide some context.

After spending an amazing six days with my best friend Kristen and her lovely family (and becoming quite smitten with her 4-year old son), I took off on a plane and landed myself in London, England for a 16-hour layover.

I landed around 9PM and grabbed a cab to my hotel. I still had stars in my eyes from Spain and just hearing the British accents in the airport plastered a giant smile on my face.

The cabbie pulled up (on the opposite side of the street) and asked me where I was headed.

“Hayes!” I said. The town where my hotel was located was called Hayes.

As we drove around and out of the Heathrow Airport, I looked out into the night, my gigantic travel bag sitting next to me like a supportive friend. It was fun feeling like a world traveler. Me and this bag had seen a lot of amazing things the past week.

We arrived at The easyHotel and I pulled 30 Pounds from my worn Wells Fargo envelope for my cab driver.

When I stepped into my hotel room I felt like I was actually in Tokyo, Japan. It was like a little capsule and the bathroom door looked like the entrance to a spaceship. It wasn’t extravagant or expensive. It was simple and clean and would do the job nicely.

In the early morning I showered in the spaceship and took a cab to Windsor to see the Windsor Castle. It wasn’t open for tours until 9:30AM but because I had to check out of the hotel by 10AM I decided to go early. Plus they didn’t allow bags. My travel pack could not accompany me on this adventure.

So, there I was at 7:30 in the morning, stepping out of another cab in front of a castle. It was chilly and I’d only packed a light sweater, but the glow of the sun peaking out from behind the castle brought warmth to my soul.

I mean kind of. It was still really fucking cold.

I walked all around Windsor, seeing the castle from all angles. I took “The Long Walk” down from the castle and contemplated life. Tomorrow I’d be back in my classroom with my students. I loved my kids, but I was already feeling depressed about checking my school email, lesson planning, and grading things I should have graded weeks ago.

But for now I could just walk. Down this cold and open path. It was too early for tourists. It was just me, my footsteps, and a long walk.

Like really long. I must have walked a mile down that thing. (Editor’s note: The Long Walk is 2.65 miles or 4.26 kilometers if you’re British)

I walked back to the front of the castle, meandering down side streets and getting a little lost (it’s okay, Ma. I have a smart phone!). I got back to a coffee shop, ordered an English Breakfast tea cuz’ that sounded like a proper English thing to do, and booked an Uber to pick me up (cuz’ British people like Uber too).

When I got back to the hotel I packed up my human-sized bag, checked out, strapped it to my back, and headed down the street. I didn’t know where I was going or how I’d get there. It didn’t really matter. I still had a few hours to kill before I needed to be at the airport.

So I walked some more. And some more. And some more.

I didn’t stress myself out about where I was or where I needed to be.

But I was getting hungry from all this walking.

At this point I could go for a beer, but it was still only noon and I wanted to have my wits about me maneuvering the Heathrow Airport.

This is where the sandwich comes in.

I bet you were wondering. It’s been a very long build up. Get it. Because I was walking The Long Walk.

Okay, sorry. Back to the sandwich.

I decided to walk myself into a little grocery store to find some food. It was like a 7-Eleven except classier.

I was feeling rather European so I found a baguette, some cheese, prosciutto, and a handful of mustard packets. And a Red Bull. Because that bag is like 40 pounds (and I mean weight not price) and I’d easily walked 10 miles (16.093 kilometers) by now.

I brought my goodies to a park bench by an open courtyard and began to assemble my sandwich.

I sat there in that small courtyard and ate that whole sandwich, my bag and I taking up the entire park bench.

And as weird as this is about to sound: that was the happiest moment of my life.

It was the purest bliss I’d ever experienced. It was so simple. I was eating a sandwich. Granted, the fact that I was in a beautiful part of the world didn’t hurt, but I wasn’t taking pictures at Big Ben or any other tourist site. I wasn’t hitting the town for an exciting live band or salsa dancing with a sexy foreigner.

I was just eating a sandwich.

Time stopped being time. It was just place. Here on this bench with a mouthful of cheap bread and cheese with my travel bag sitting next to me quietly.

I stopped worrying about my upcoming existential crisis of quitting my job. I wasn’t looking at my phone. I wasn’t sending cute travel snapchats to my friends or panicking about how much money I had left in my little envelope.

I was just there. Truly in the moment. Slobbering all over myself with a giant smile on my face for absolutely no one to see but myself.

Transcendence. Mindfulness. Bliss. Whatever you want to call it, I was doing it.

For the first time ever I realized that happiness doesn’t just happen to you, you have to make it happen yourself. In every small and insignificant moment.

I’d traveled the world, seen beautiful things, yet I was still content to stress myself out about things that I couldn’t control. I felt burdened by my thoughts, feelings, and circumstance. And in that moment I let go. I let go of everything and allowed myself to be present in the simplest of events.

It’s not easy.

I’m not saying the next time you eat a sandwich you can’t transcend like I did, hey, maybe you eat a lot of bomb-ass sandwiches. But it might not happen that way for you. Everyone is different.

But I do know that bliss and happiness is possible. In the everyday and tiny moments that we can consciously choose to be present for and enjoy.

So show up for your life. Know when to pay attention to the small details and when to let yourself be in the moment. Travel the world and eat as many sandwiches as you can.

You only have this one life.

"2007 called, they want their jumping pictures back."

The Brave Little Toast Bar: My Discovery of the Trending 'Toast Buffet'

Ohhhh...look at that sexy toast right there.

Living in a growing (ha) city like Denver, Colorado I thought I’d been up to date on my foodie trends. My friend's friend started a sushi food truck last summer and I’ve been all up in that business.

But then I took a trip to the Midwest this July to see some college buddies and everything changed.

“Let’s go to the Toast Bar,” my college buddy Sami said as we rolled out for a morning on the town.

“The what?” I asked.

The idea that toast could blow my mind sounded ridiculous, childish even. I liked the idea that it was a "bar" of sorts. But what could be so thrilling about a piece of bread?

Tucked into the art district of downtown Minneapolis, MN was a build-your-own-toast buffet. Included were three different homemade jams, four flavors of nut butters (step aside peanut, there are some new nuts in town), an Egyptian honey, and more cheeses than I could have ever hoped for.

“You mean I get to put whatever I want on there?” I asked the lady behind the counter while eyeing the tubs of butter.

Nothing against pancakes, but who knew toast could be so great am I right?

Since my stay at Canteen I have been on the hunt for the best toast bars in town. They've been trending in the Midwest and beyond. But I have yet to find something as great as that first time. I literally haven't stopped thinking about toast since that fateful day in July. It's kind of a problem, actually. 

Like any first time, it’s shrouded in mystery and nostalgia.

Plenty of my favorite brunch restaurants in Denver, City O’ City, Snooze, and Jelly, offer French toasts, pancakes, and build-your-own omelets. But I have yet to discover the illusive Toast Bar.

But I shan’t give up. I will march on in my pursuit for the perfect toast experience. I will walk boldly into the unknown on my never-ending hunt for golden and buttery perfection.  

Photo credit: Google.com

For where would that Brave Little Toaster be if he didn’t take a leap of faith off that trash compactor to save Blanky?

Dead. He’d be dead.

Send Brennyn to Britain!

I have a lot of friends. 

Ask my parents.  They often get confused at which friend I’m referring to in conversation and have requested that I make a spreadsheet so that they can keep track of which Mel is the Mel I worked with at the country club and which Mel is the roommate from Boulder who just got married.

I’m popular what can I say.

But long lists of gal pals and teaching buddies aside there is a special friend that I would like to give a shout out to today and every day.

Her name is Brennyn Hoose.

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Back before we had cell phones, Snapchat, and real adult responsibilities she befriended me; a loud-mouthed theater chick who thought she was some cool business back in high school.  Back when lamenting over boys who didn’t know we existed was all we had to worry about.  We were 14 and had no idea what would become of our lives. 

She’s my rock.

When my heart was epically curb-stomped last year she was the first one I called at 4am, snot dripping out of my nose and writhing in pain in the corner of some dark parking lot.

When the shit hit the fan with my health last Fall she was the first one there again.  It took her all of two seconds to drop everything she was doing, drive across town in rush hour traffic, and arrive in my hospital room with a gigantic bag of chocolate and flowers.

Here we are in 2015. 

I am up to my elbows in new teaching stress and Brennyn is by my side every step of the way as she always is.  After my first day of school she dropped by my house to give me a box of chocolate and listen to me ramble on about my inability to work the copy machine and effectively manage my classroom.

She’s my rock.  And you know yuh' girl is all about that chocolate.

So when Brennyn told me that her dream in life was to go to England for a mission trip with YWAM (Youth With A Mission) to change lives, I knew I had to do something about it.  Big time.

So I invited Brennyn over for wine and chatted her up about her journey in front of a cheap front-facing camera on my parent’s couch.  We talked about how she discovered the program, what led her to her faith, and where she will be stationed to work. 

What you don’t see in the video (which is terribly edited by yours truly) is her non-stop hustle. For the past 6 months Brennyn has been working herself to the nubs for this dream.

Standing in line all day to fill out paperwork for her Visa.  Saving up every penny she has.  Talking to complete strangers about the importance of her journey and trying to convince them that she is worthy of this.  Getting denied from one program and applying to another.  Working two full-time jobs and still having time to call me on the phone and hear me dump my own emotional trauma on her.

I actually don’t know another human being who works as hard as she does.

The woman doesn’t quit.

So therefore I won’t quit until she achieves her dream. 

This is where you come in, my devoted readers.  I am asking you to give.  Give back to the woman that has made me who I am today.  Give back to a soul that is so selfless and real that she makes you want to be better than you ever thought you could.

Give her a dollar, a penny, a prayer.  Make her dreams come true.  Because if I know anyone who will make a difference in this world, it’s Brennyn.  So help get her there.

Below I have attached her personal blog and funding page.  I encourage you to read up on her mission and what she plans to do in England and other parts of the world.  I encourage you to donate to her cause and her never-ending dedication to her faith and her number one fan (me).

Join my campaign to send Brennyn to Britain!

Click here to read her blog and here to donate!

"We're not in Colorado anymore, Tucker..."

I never really considered myself a "small town" gal.  I always pictured myself as more of a "big city" lady; trolling around some bright skyline looking for love in all the wrong places.  

Sophisticated.  Street smart.  And with killer style to boot.

Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahaha. 

(That's me laughing audibly loud at myself from this busy coffee shop table)

Today marks my fourth official day in New York City for the first time.  And while I would love to say I am the version of Carrie from Sex and the City that we all aspire to be, I am actually Tom Hanks from The Terminal.

You see that movie? Of course you did.

Tom Hanks is the man. 

I am perpetually confused and bumble around hoping to make sense of something or someone.  Sometimes I'm not entirely sure if I'm even speaking English.  My "Resting Confused Face" follows me around the subway as I get on and off of trains that only occasionally take me to my intended destination.  

So I'm a smidge directionally challenged it turns out, but the Big Apple hasn't entirely chewed me up and spat me out just yet. With some time I think I could stumble gracefully into this place.  

The first day was the hardest, hands down.  As I exited the subway for the first time I started walking in the general direction of the swarm of humans also exiting the subway.  I figured being a salmon wasn't the correct move so I went with the flow.  I walked towards the metal turn-style to leave to the street.

Right as I was in the middle of the turn-style about to pass through the metal gate, a woman approached me from the other side.  I was already almost through and she entered my turn-style.  

We made direct eye contact.

Um, hi.  Hello.  I'm in this one.

I didn't say this out loud.  But I thought about it.  She continued to make eye contact with me as she kept coming at me at full speed.

Suddenly I thought I must have been going the wrong way.  Surely I was doing it incorrectly.

I went into reverse and backed out of the turn-style as she continued like a freight train into my lane.  I backed all the way out as she passed by me as if it was nothing, making uncomfortable eyes at me the entire time.

"Oh my goodness, how embarrassing," I thought.  "I just went the wrong way in a turn-style."

Nope.  No I didn't.  They go both ways.  She was just a busy New Yorker who couldn't be bothered to move out of the way.

She high-statused the small town fuck out of me. 

Which is easy to do when you look like me: short, baby-faced, and with a permanent confused furrow in my brow.  Worry lines, if you will.

I have always loved big cities.  I have just never seen anything this big before.  I mean New York City is enormous.  People are on top of people here.  If you hit the town at the right time you might just see more people then you ever even knew existed. 

Where are all of these people going?  What are they doing?  WHY ARE THERE SO MANY OF THEM.

These are the thoughts I have as I get on and off the subway each day.  It makes me physically anxious.  Am I supposed to look them all in the eye?  Do I compliment each person I see on their outfits?  Is it okay to ask someone how their day is going?  I'm just at a loss as to what to do about all the humans I see on a daily basis here.  

Not only have I battled with my human-related anxiety levels while here, but I have attempted to adapt quickly to the environment.

I do things in New York that I would never do back at home.

Subway too packed?  Let's cram on in there.

Sketchy street deals?  99 cents for pizza AND a back massage?  What a steal.

Don't Walk sign?  Sure, let's walk.

My mother is most likely cringing at the thought of these things that I have just said, but I adapted this way to make it out alive.  I mean don't get me wrong.  There was plenty of overlap between Suburban Me and City Me.  

A good day was getting lost five times instead of six.  I think my count this morning is only two, so we're on a roll.

(knock on dirty wood table)

Well, back to the old grind as they say.  I have approximately three minutes to inhale this fancy sandwich and trek the five blocks to my improv class.  Which is plenty of time if you're a New Yorker.

Bye! Or as they say in New York,

"..."

(says nothing and proceeds to jog-walk past you in the turn-style.)