Today is my six-year anniversary at The Job. That means I've also been in New York City for six years.
I've had the same job the entire time I've been in New York. At first I took it because I needed to pay my rent, which at the time was $550 a month. (Now I pay $1,315. Yes, I am smoking crack.) The job ended up seeing me through the dot-com bubble, when all my friends got laid off, through two continous years of graduate school at Columbia, a few boyfriends, a trip to Bulgaria, and several epiphanies.
Now for a little self-indulgent, self assessement. In six years I have:
Lived in three neighborhoods: The Upper East Side, Chinatown (Bowery and Bayard, baby!) and finally, Gramercy.
Earned a masters degree.
Picked up my interest in singing and dancing again.
Sung at Carnegie Hall (twice)
Managed to consistently earn my living as a writer.
Landed a story assignment with a major magazine.
Finished one novel that, although it needs a solid edit, is in fact, done.
Not bad for a gal who scored a 380 on her math SAT. (Numbers. Who needs them?)