Stuck

For going on three days now, I’ve felt like this. Indifferent, Tired, Invisible. I’m tired of trying to love well. Tired of caring and doing- because I’ve begun to do it out of obligation, I’m afraid. In times like this I am ready to give up on all I’ve known and worked for and done. I don’t know why really.

This morning I ran almost three blocks to catch the Crosstown 86 Street bus because I didn’t want to walk .8 miles in freezing temperatures and winds that could cut through glass. Once I arrived at my subway stop I waited on the platform while three trains stopped at the station. Each subway car was bubbling over with people who were bursting out when the doors tried to close. Finally, I got on a subway and headed to work.

There are so many people in this city, appearing machine like in their going and coming, the way they speed walk from Avenue to Avenue, from subway car to subway car, up the stairs, to the escalators and back down again. It’s all business during this Monday through Friday commute to and from. Not much talking, not much smiling, not much eye contact. It’s just bending and lifting and racing about to get indoors; to get to the final destination for the next eight, nine, ten hours of life- the part of life that a lot of us hate more than any other part, but spend so much more time doing.

Doing. This is a word that is beginning to wear on me a bit. I think that I do a lot, but never get a lot done. Does this make sense? That in my efforts to do I am just skimming the surface and never diving deep enough, never totally submersing myself and becoming consumed with much of anything.

I’m starting to become the machine of this city. To lose my grace and charm and character – maybe. Or maybe I’ve just given into it for the past few days because it’s easier than trying to fight against it. It’s easier than trying at all, as sad as that might sound. It’s easier than thinking or being nice or using the skills and desires and patience that I know are within me.

When I got to 317 Madison Avenue this morning, the doorman says to me, “Excuse me but if you don’t work here you’re going to have to check in at the desk.” Really?! Excuse me Mr. Concierge who never acknowledges me, never returns my greetings or smiles, I have worked here for almost four months. This is not the day to say this to me. This is not the day to open your mouth and blurt out your ignorance. I didn't say that though. I just smiled, said I did work here, and proceded to the elevtor with the lit arrow above it.

When the door shut on the elevator door and I pushed 19, I was alone for the first time since stepping out of my apartment on the 32nd floor on 92nd Street. (Even that elevator was crammed with my landlord, his assistant, a gimp, sickly looking Greyhound dog, the dogs owner, some guy just trying to get to work like myself, a mom, dad, and two year old kid with his huge stroller.) So, alone, headed to the office where I work, I wanted to collapse into the corner and fall to the floor. I felt the anger, frustration, the “I really don’t want to be here today” all well-up inside of me trying to gush out in the form of tears- and for no good reason. But instead I took some deep breaths: in through the nose out through the mouth. Repeatedly. Closed my eyes and opened them. Tried to remember that I have an easy job, an easy life. This is nothing. This is petty. This is just how it is sometimes, funny even, laughable. But not to me, and not right now.

In the door and I am ON. After all, a receptionist is supposed to always be friendly, courteous, helpful and never cross or moody. Leave it at the door. Bah. I am the voice on the phone. I am the smile behind the desk. I am the one who can tell you whatever it is you want to know. (Or at least that's how it seems so often, by the questions I am asked.)

So, I get my coffee, my water, my 100 calorie muffin and gather myself. The goal is to remember that I’ve left it all at the door and convince myself that this WILL, in fact, be a good day. It will. Then I proceed to call the IT guy to troubleshoot a phone problem that an employee is having. When he tells me, “I don’t handle your phones. That would be John,” I say, “Yes I know that. I’m so sorry to bother you. I just walked in the door. I’m having an awful morning. I'm not awake yet.” Perhaps I should have said that I have no good excuse but it truly feels like I’ve only been using half my brain for the past month. And the problem is only getting worse.