Upon reading Constance Rosenblum's The Price 20-Somethings Pay to Live in the City, in the New York Times today, it opened up reflection of my own life in a big city. Here I am, lying in my own bed, raised above the dusty hardwood inhibited with tumbleweeds of hair and miscellaneous insects (despite my efforts to Swiffer). Out my window, the reflection of the buildings clustered together seems to dance in the night sky, glittering off in the distance. This sequence is almost too showy, much like an untouchable display at a high-end department store. Yet somehow the cards played the hand of a teenage dream.
"I am the lady strutting streets with shopping bags hooked to my forearm, swaying in sync to the clank of my heels as I trace the concrete, lining the road of tourists."
Minivans and SUVs filled with Cheerios and coffee cups, sing-a-long songs and fast food, nameless families from that small, Mid-Western suburb. I'm a big city girl now.
Wrong. Cars transport me too. and you. and that man over there.
No one is above nor below another, but to the left or right. Separated by the ego, super-ego, and the id, we are all the same under the setting sun. We deceivingly imagined it any other way. One difference being that some people choose to wear glitter.
With these thoughts understanding equality, I will fall asleep smiling at the city; my teenage dream.
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