Recently I pondered what it would be like to hold a job in which I was required to be at work at 7 am and in which the typical week would consist of 60 to 70 hours at the office. Such routines are not at all unusual in New York; in fact, I am one of the lucky few to hold a Manhattan job that offers excellent work-life balance. A few weeks ago, though, I had an appointment that required me to be up at 6 am and on the M5 bus by 7 am, and I knew I wouldn't return home before 7 pm that evening. My day was spoken for before it even began.
As the bus rounded Columbus Circle and made its way along Central Park South, I caught a glimpse of several runners in the Park who were ticking off an early morning workout. Although I had been in the Park the day prior and knew I would be there again the next, I still felt a twinge of envy. Looking around the bus, it was apparent that at least three-quarters of my fellow riders were getting exercise of a different kind: strength training in the form of hauling files to and from the office; aerobic exercise in the form of furious BlackBerry typing; cross-training in the form of simultaneous cell phone text messaging. I couldn't help but think,
Is the career and (assuming one is so lucky) the bonus worth it? Do these things compensate for the sardine-tin-sized apartments, the sticky subways, the crowds, and, for many, the need to work long hours (because if you don't want to, someone else is eager to take your place)?Sometimes (frequently) Zdenek and I ponder these questions, typically during Sunday afternoon strolls along Central Park's bridle path, chai lattes in hand. While I don't have to put in hours at the office worthy of a banker or lawyer, there's some truth to Zdenek's lament that our New York lifestyles are barely one step up from our student days. Apparently, other people agree: an old friend who visited me a couple of years ago once commented that there is "no way" she could live "like this" (meaning, in my apartment). True, it would be nice to have a washing machine at home -- in ten years, I've had the luxury of a W/D (for the New York real estate crowd) for only one year, and that was in Toronto -- but Sunday evening laundromat trips provide an opportunity to fit in a weight lifting session at the gym around the corner while the wash cycle runs. Yes, it would sometimes be nice to have a car to escape the city, but then I think about the associated traffic, gas, and repair bills, and I suddenly don't miss it anymore. And I am the first to admit that our Upper West Side apartment leaves a bit to be desired:
- I have no closet for my clothes and I actually have to dust off my blazers before I wear them;
- Our bedroom furniture is plastic (and marked up with packing tape to boot);
- I must discard old articles of clothing (or shoes or purses) before I have room to store new ones;
- Our "garage" consists of a set of golf clubs, a few tennis rackets, our bike helmets and other accessories, along with our bikes, and it's right next to our dining table (I would say "kitchen table" or "dining room table," but either would be an overstatement);
- The IKEA kitchen cart next to our front door holds everything from today's mail to cookbooks to umbrellas to pots and pans;
- Our bedroom boils every summer without a dedicated air conditioner (the room is actually too small for one to work effectively);
- Our living room freezes every winter as drafts rush in around that room's window A/C (we'd remove it for the winter, but then we'd have nowhere to put it);
- And every morning, Zdenek (I am too short) has to hang a green shower cap (it doesn't have to be green, but it happens to be) over our "hallway" (2'x1.5') smoke detector while we shower -- without the cap, the hot steam escaping from the bathroom will incessantly set off the alarm.
(I wanted to post a few photos of our house of horrors, but Zdenek forbade me.)
Despite all of that, I rarely, if ever, find myself pining for a "real" house, a car, or the latest fashion accessory (or somewhere to store it). To me, these things offer only maintenance headaches and/or fleeting satisfaction. I think I learned long ago that, if I'm forced to choose, I am more about "experiences" than "things." (Zdenek almost had this figured out when, on our first Christmas as a married couple, he didn't buy me a gift but rather presented me with a book of coupons for monthly massages at "Spa Zdenek." I was thrilled! Unfortunately, every time I tried to redeem a coupon over the next twelve months, I found the spa to be closed or the masseur too tired. He's since gone back to taking me shopping.) I know that I will end up in a foul mood if I miss more than two days of running if it's due to no other reason than lack of time. I live half a mile from the greatest city playground in the world. I have a fantastic bike mechanic shop only two blocks from my front door, and an equally fantastic running store only one block further. I can walk to work. I spend next to no time commuting, which leaves me plenty of extra time for running, cycling, or sleeping. And a car ride has never once made me smile, but a bike ride is guaranteed to leave me grinning. (And to be honest, I laugh out loud every morning when the shower cap is put in place, and I remind myself daily that I am one of the luckiest people on earth, closet or no closet.)
Someday, I'll probably catch up with the Joneses and I will find myself driving my car into my garage and then walking into my house (and I'll be able to wear high heels doing it, too, because walking miles each day will be a distant memory). But I'm not certain it will make me any happier. Indeed, over the last ten years my disposable income has risen and I have been able to afford more "things," but I'd be hard pressed to tell you what they are or how they made me feel. I could, however, go on for hours about the feeling of pride I get from a good run or the sense of satisfaction I earn after a solid bike ride.
In fact, I could write a blog about it.
