Balls.

I wrote the other day, somewhere in my comings and goings online, that I am growing balls. Not so much in the physical sense (actually not at all in the physical sense) but moreso in the emotional/self-esteem department. I came to New York a newbie to this world (and New York City is indeed a world of its own) and along with that newness came, from somewhere, a sense of unworthiness. Of sensitivities of the eggshell variety. I was afraid to storm down the street, to walk boldly where a million trillion other footsteps have fallen. I was overly kind, not nearly assertive enough to even save my place in line in Target, easily trampled over by the New Yorkers who I felt had every right to do the trampling. “It’s alright,” I’d tell myself, “one day I’ll get there. I’ll be bold someday.”

Folks, that day has come. I am SICK of being the tiny voice. I am SICK of being the “excuse me” in a city where people smack elbows into each other’s sides without a second thought. Ah ha! No More Country Mouse! This is MY city too! I live here! I chose this place! And despite the bumping elbows, it’s welcomed me into its huge concrete and glass arms and hugged me tight with all the bodies pressed together in its subway system. Good God I love this place!

But back to the balls: People, never in my life have I been bold. And this city is changing me for the better. I push right by people on the sidewalk. I lengthen my stride. If we bump, we bump. If someone bumps me and doesn’t say sorry, I get an attitude. I talk to cab drivers. I laugh out loud on the bus. I talk to people on the subway about what they’re reading. I stand up for myself at work: I have opinions and I share them. I tell the truth, even if it sucks. I don’t leave room for insecurities.

People say this is a hard city to live in, to adjust to. I say it’s just what the doctor ordered.