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1.
The average household income in the Upper West Side is $232,000, almost five times what the average street vendor makes.
Yet I heard an old rich man near Lincoln Square say to the man selling him halal food:,
"I wish I was you,"
On a bright sunday afternoon, this man walked out of an apartment in *this* neighborhood, and has enough bothering him to wish he were a street vendor.
I'm sure he wasn't serious. But every joke carries a little dose of truth.
2.
I wish I was a lot of people.
They have a lot of things that I don't have.
I wish I:
- was cool enough to be a skater boy in the park
- lived where the Lincoln Center was a block away, not a train away.
- had more status
- gambled in Monaco
- was a little bit taller, wish I was a baller
- owned a skyscraper on Billionaire's Row
- was a person in power, an icon, followed by many
- owned a plot of land in the mountains
- knew my family in Mexico
- ran a hedge fund
- sauntered around town with model friends during fashion week
- had more money
- felt a sense of belonging
- was a street performer, a farmer, a woodworker
- owned an estate in the Hamptons
- counted celebreties in my social circle
- lived in a foreign country
- was in love
- played a professional sport and had a trophy wife and a trophy case
- was an artist, musician, wealthy financier (among other things)
- watched high school football games in Middle of Nowhere, TX
- had enough cachet to be invited to big fancy parties and chat up high society
- could go back to my childhood and eat cotton candy for the first time
Sitting in DeWitt Clinton Park, sun beaming down from its perch on the horizon, I wanted to be one of the three brothers throwing the baseball with each other, rolling it at the youngest to help him learn how to field a ground ball.
A lover and I laid down on the turf, eyes toward the blue sky, glancing around, enjoying the good air, watching the scenes.
I would have given anything to feel whatever that father felt when his young daughter, no older than seven, saw us laying down and decided she would do the same, inviting her dad to lay down and watch the leaves on the trees above sway back and forth with her. I glanced over. He held her hand.
Fuck being cool. I wish I loved a love that deep.
And to that daughter: I wish I was seven years old again. I wish I was throwing a plush football to myself, diving on the couch to catch it while mom made dinner. I wish I could rewind the clock and be so care free, though I know if given that advice at seven years old, I would not have understood its significance.
"I wish I was you."
Strong, too there are the desires of connection: to have a hug right now, to hold a beautiful woman's hand, to fuck until morning arrives. RVs and penthouses alike can be home to such desires, it involves no material, only someone else, and count me among the lucky to have had these things, far more times than I deserve.
When morning comes, I don't know who I wish to be. Me, from the night before? A new man? In the context of love? Back in the throes of searching and being searched for?
When I open the blinds and the morning light hits her eyes heavy, so too my realization: I think I forgot to enjoy the hug, forgot to feel her hand, forgot to fuck with more than my body.
Grant me another chance to eat and be fulfilled.
You know, I wish I was you, too.
Tell me about yourself, viewer:
Do you live in the city, too? Is your apartment beautiful? Have you many followers and a social life that looks like happiness?
Is it impossible for you to be truly alone? Is it difficult to be at peace while the whirlwind of people swarm? Are you lost in abundance?
Are you in the middle of nowhere? A small town in texas I may have been to? A college town surrounded by people you perceive as fools? Are you still at home with your parents and annoying siblings? Gone off to same far-off corner of the world on your own, lonely?
As disappointing as your reality is to you, so too it appears enticing in many ways. Your small town is peaceful as opposed to this chaos. Your simpleton neighbors are refreshing, at times, opposed to this silently classist rich.
Oh, but you wouldn't know how good your life is.
Even if it is shit.
I wish I had your friends, your middle-of-nowhere backdrop, your cozy bed with too many pillows on it, at least for a night, at least for a bit.
Do you know how many people want to be *me*?
To live in New York, alone, on the island of Manhattan, to walk these streets every night and see this sun peer through the windows in my shoebox every morning?
Many.
I wish you were me.
You'd see that it is not all glorious — though, plenty of it is — and being in New York never solved my most deep, human desire:
To love, and be loved.
I wish you were me, here on third street, three p.m. On a sunday, three packages of Pop-Tarts deep for the week, a bit paralyzed by the noise of friend groups passing by my ground floor window, laughing, gossiping, on their way *somewhere*.
I wish you were me, on walks through Greenwich Village, good looking enough to fit in among the rich and disconnected enough to never sit at their tables, identifying more with the social life of a delivery man on a bicycle than the salaried professionals you share office hallways with.
You'll survey the rest of my life, and say: "I still wish I was you."
It looks good, doesn't it?
But hey, did you ever consider:
All of these things we say we wish for, they conflict? There are too many of them, and too little time to make them all a reality? Too much for any one person to handle in the first place?
They can be so preoccupying as to become unenjoyable when they show up.
So, why this nagging desire to live any life other than our own?
Nietzsche once said:
"Haste is universal because everyone is in flight from himself."
Running away from the fact our desires are simple yet unattainable. That's what it is for me, anyway.
I met someone who is truly running away. Her name unmentioned, she has been running from her father almost since birth. Her mother took her and her three siblings as small children and ran away, and they have lived in a van most of her life. She told me this in Washington Square Park with a smile, as if pleased that someone here inquired why she has such pained, earned felicity in her face. Th -e father stalks them, prowls after them, and the mother continues to lead them away from his abuses. This girl is on the fringe of society, off to scavenge near columbus circle after she leaves the park.
She has very little, other than family and what they can fit in a van.
Here I was, searching eyes darting around in search of the trophy wife who could be the one. Here I was, disappointed life hasn't given me everything I want.
And this person in front of me has little to nothing. She smiled. Laughed. Happy to tell her story and be heard.
Wishes fulfilled don't make a life fulfilled.
Listen:
I don't wish I was you.
Your life is far too adventurous, you have too many friends, and smoke too often for my tastes. Your uber bill I could not cope with. I will stand awkwardly in a corner of all the concerts you dance around at. Do you have a car? I would *hate* that. The gas, the car payment, the insurance, how do you do it? The freedom of movement you afford makes me more stressed than it does free. Your life seems awesome, but I'm afraid,
You are far too "you" for me.
And you'll be disappointed to hear:
I prefer not to drink, smoke, caffeinate with coffee, so you'll be falling asleep every day around 3 p.m. My closet is full of copies, many pairs of the same jeans, the same shirts, the only variety coming in the form of jackets and sweatshirts. If you're any fan of variety, good luck. I don't eat pasta, sushi, or anything remotely exotic or slimy. It all freaks me out.
I'm afraid my life is far too "me" for you.
But I do wish I was you in one sense:
If I were you,
I would wish I was me,
and finally come to appreciate
all the little things that
make this life worth living.