Snot, Tears, and Rock and Roll; or, what happened when I cried in a cab last night.

The past week has been rather emotionally and mentally taxing for me.  My head has felt clouded, and my heart has felt flighty, and my armpits have felt sweaty.  It's been really hot in New York.

Out of fear that this blog will quickly turn in to my middle school Xanga if I elaborate on why I've been feeling this way, I will just provide you with a simple break down:

54% is the bitch that is moving in New York City.  If someone ever figures out the science to doing that without losing sanity, I hope they publish a book.  I'd really like to know.

27% is the heat, and my anxiety level over figuring out how to buy and install an air conditioner.  There are so many numbers involved. 

11% is sheer desire for nicotine.  It's that time of the year when everyone sits outside and smokes and gets skinny and tan.  Of course, they die a lot sooner, too, so I guess I'm not missing out on too much.

And the other 8% are miscellaneous issues: bills, razor burn, my inability to finish that book on Queen Elizabeth, etc.

Can someone please check the math on that?

All of these things came to a head late last night, though, in the back of a cab.  The moment I slid in to the seat and shut the door, I felt overcome with loneliness.  Perhaps loneliness isn't the best word to describe how I felt, because loneliness has a negative connotation for most people.  This sort of loneliness came with a sense of relief.  I felt like I had been around people non-stop for the past few weeks.  For just the few blocks I was travelling,  I didn't have to be around anyone.   I didn't have to answer to anyone.  I could feel whatever I wanted, and didn't have to validate those feelings within someone else.  I didn't have to explain them to anyone or try to understand them.  I could just let them be.

And before I knew it, I had broken out in to full-on sobs in the back of this cab.  I'm talking big ol' tears, heaving breaths, snot going every where.  The kind of cry Strasbergian dreams are made of.  And it felt so good, because I didn't have to make sense of why it was happening.  Because I was completely alone.

Until I realized that I wasn't alone at all.  Just an arms-length away, in fact, was another person, because only in my weird, futuristic dreams do cabs drive themselves (and we can Google things with our minds, and tesseracting replaces air travel, and refills are always free).  My private moment was no longer so private.  This poor man was just doing his job, and there I was, in the back of his cab, letting my emotional run-off flow free.  I felt terrible.  What an uncomfortable situation to put this innocent guy in.  If I knew how to safely jump out of a moving vehicle, I would have done it then.

I had only begun to realize just how embarrassing the situation was, when we pulled up to my corner.   As I fumbled through my purse for my wallet, however, three incredible things happened almost simultaneously.

ONE my phone had a bit of a seizure, as it's been prone to do lately, and began playing my favorite song by the Jacob Jeffries Band called Take Me Out Tonight.  It's a song about a dog, and it always makes me giggle, and this was no exception.

TWO a cab pulled up to the red light next to mine.  In the back seat, a couple was having one of the most ferocious make out sessions I've ever witnessed.  I feared for the safety of their mouths.  I also realized that no matter what I had just done in the back of the cab, someone else had done something much, much worse.

THREE the cab driver handed me a tissue.  He didn't ask questions, or even look at me, really.  I didn't have to validate or explain anything.  It was the most simple human interaction I had experienced in a very long time.  And it meant the world to me.

Needless to say, this cab driver got a hefty tip.

Playing Pretend; or, why cab rides remind me of one night stands

I got my degree in playing pretend, though my parent's might tell you it's a BFA in Drama.

So, it should come as no surprise that every now and then, I enjoy playing pretend/acting out a role in the back of a cab.

Much like a one night stand, in the back of a cab, I have the ability to be whoever I please.  Because, much like a one night stand, 15 minutes later, I'm going to be saying thanks and goodbye.

(Other ways that cab rides remind me of one night stands:

ONE: I often forget to find out the guy's name

TWO: I just sit there while they do all the work

THREE: I know my parent's would be disappointed

But I digress.)

Though it's only happened a handful of times, when a cab driver asks me what I do for a living, I find it to be far too cliche to respond with the truth:  I'm a struggling actress, with a gazillion dollar degree from NYU, and my dad is paying for this cab ride, like he did my tuition, xoxo, spoiled brat.

Cab drivers are much more interested in carrying on conversations with therapists, film makers, political satirists, or ghost writers for an unspecified NBC comedy.  At least, in my experience.

Occasionally I feel guilty afterwards, realizing that I just lied to a completely innocent man.  He had been kind enough to take an interest in who I am in the first place, the least I could have done was given him the truth.  But then I remember two things.

ONE: I just paid the guy.  I usually feign interest in anyone who's giving me money.

TWO: I'm just acting out a fantasy.  How often in life do we get the opportunity to do that?

(I'm not talking about our Fifty Shades of Grey fantasies-- though that would work well with the one night stand metaphor previously mentioned.)

I enjoy fantasizing about being a different person and living a different life.  It has nothing to do with being dissatisfied with my own life-- I'm rather content with where I am.  I get a rush out of walking in someone else's shoes (or riding in someone else's cab) for a few minutes.  Just like when I played dress up as a little girl, plopping around in my mother's heels, it gives me the opportunity to see the world from another angle, if only for a few blocks.  It's probably part of what attracted me to acting in the the first place, and certainly what's got me sticking around.  

Perhaps it's a bit strange, but it seems rather harmless to me.  After all, the odds of running in to the same cab driver twice are pretty slim in this city.  

And that, my friends, is where a cab ride ceases to remind me of a one night stand.

Sidewalkers Lament; or, Why I Like Taking Cabs On Pretty Days

The weather in New York City is beautiful today. The sun is bright, humidity low, and, at a nice 70 degrees, my butt crack isn't sweating.  It is the perfect day for a cab ride.

It's not that I don't want to be outside on a day like today.  Completely the opposite, actually.  In fact, I'm sitting outside on my fire escape at this very moment.  It is the thought of trying to get from Point A to Point B by foot on a beautiful day that turns me off, and I think my reasoning for feeling that way is rather solid.

So, allow me to list a few of my reasons.

REASON NUMBER ONE: I sunburn like an Irish kid.  Honestly, I spend 15 minutes outside on a sunny day, and I'm looking at at least 15 days of pink skin.  This is why I wear bee keeper-esque outfits on the beach, and keep detailed charts and diagrams of all my moles and freckles.  From the backseat of a cab, I'm able to enjoy the bright sun from a shady place.  And if I'm listening to Eminem while riding in the backseat of a cab, I can enjoy the bright sun from a slim shady place.*

*That was so bad.

REASON NUMBER TWO: The sidewalks seem to be littered with temptations of all kinds on pretty days.  Food trucks and street fairs always seduce me with their overpriced grilled cheeses and Asian-inspired tacos.  The open windows and rooftop seating of bars and restaurants ensnare me in a way that I simply can not resist.  And I swear that Greenpeace has a bunker full of cute and persuasive boys that they release only when the weather is nice.  Ultimately, walking is just as draining on my wallet as a cab ride, and takes me twice as long.  So, really, I'm just being economical.   

REASON NUMBER THREE:  The city comes to life on days like today.  People look up on beautiful days.  They're less afraid to smile at or make eye contact with a stranger.  The footsteps of the city slow down-- even the hurried business man takes a minute or two to enjoy his favorite tree lined block.  The best people-watching-seat in the house is in the back of a cab.  I get to be a true observer back there.  A red light provides just enough time to see two people kiss, decipher whether it's a joyful hello or a sad goodbye, empathize with the human condition, and be gone before anyone even notices.  I get to be in on the private moment without invading the sacredness of it.  It's exactly my kind of theatre-- short, realistic, and well lit.

The list goes on, but with all the pretty summer days that lie ahead of me, I'd rather not waste all of my reasons in one post.  Better to save them for a rainy day.*

*That was pretty bad, too.

I reference an imaginary watch at least once a day.

Today was the 1 year anniversary of my college graduation.  This, of course, has had me thinking quite a bit about time.

I had to wake up fairly early this morning to go do some work at 440 Studios-- the studio space that I spent all 4 years of my college career attending classes in.  I made the mistake of going to bed far too late last evening, so dragging myself out of bed this morning proved to be a task so difficult, I had to reward myself with a Slurpee from the 7-11 for simply completing it.  

With Slurpee in tow, I soon found myself standing outside of the building I lived in for most of college, with my free hand high in the air.  This task- standing outside of this luxury apartment, trying to hail a cab during morning rush hour traffic, 10 minutes before I'm supposed to be where I'm going- felt comfortable in a way I imagine making love to an old lover must be.  And by old, I do mean elderly, because, while I totally got off on the situation, I knew I was just feeding a sick, dirty habit of mine.  

As I sat in the back of the cab, and made the familiar trek down 2nd Ave, two questions came to mind:

ONE why hadn't I grabbed an umbrella?  it was clearly raining.

TWO could this moment of recognition (regarding mainly the cyclical nature of my cab riding, but also the umbrella forgetting) be a chance for great self-realization and growth?  Maybe even a little self-acceptance?

The past year has flown by.  The hours turned in to days, which turned in to weeks, which turned in to dollars, which turned in to weight watchers points, which turned in to bar tabs, which turned in to taxi fare, and clearly I haven't taken a math class in over 6 years, but I'm ok with all of that.  There's been a few bumps in the road, but the positive experiences have been exponentially rewarding, and certainly more frequent.  I think life is supposed to feel like it's speeding up at my age-- it means I'm doing enough things that my mind doesn't have the time to think about time.  

So, maybe it's ok that I haven't broken this taxi habit just yet?  Maybe I've been busy doing other things?

Maybe ending up in front of my old building, going through the motions that I had repeated every morning for 4 years, to get to the same building that I sat in for 4 years, was less a sign of staticity, and more of coming full circle with something.

The point I'm trying to make here is that time is relative.  In the grand scheme of things, in 50 years from now, after what I'm sure will be a seamless transition in to senility, this one year of my life will probably seem like a mere blip in time.  Sure, I could make a little bit more of an effort to keep track of where it's all going (honestly, I can't remember if I'm two years overdue for the gyno, or two years overdue for the dentist), but life is always more enjoyable when you learn to let go a little and enjoy the ride.  

In related news, I spent $12 on an umbrella today, and left it in a cab on the way back home from work.  Figures.

Taxi Addict Confessions: Redux

Friends, family, cunty men.  Lend me your rears.

For my long-time readers/part-time friends, you all know that my initial goal with this blogging adventure was to break a dirty, nasty habit of mine (cab rides on the daily), while cultivating my somewhat comedic writing skillz.

The sad truth is:  I failed.

I failed for several reasons, but rather than boring you with a dose of self-deprecation, I'll only highlight the top three.

ONE.  Poor time management.  I get off on waiting until the last possible minute to do anything.  It's sick, and gets me in trouble almost every day of my life.

TWO.  These 6-inch platform boots were not made for walking.

THREE.  I love cabs.  Plain and simple.

(but here's where it might get interesting)

My love affair with those yellow cars goes far beyond mere convenience.  I love cabs because every ride is different.  I'm coming from somewhere new, going somewhere new, I'm wearing a new outfit.  The cab driver is young, he's old, he's from my hometown.  The weather is beautiful, the weather is awful, the weather is weather.  I'm happy, I'm sad, I'm hung over.

Each cab ride is a different story.

And, maybe, just maybe, there lies a blog.

Let's try it out, shall we?

I once had a cab driver tell me that it scared him how serious the world is becoming.

"Everyone is running late, ya know?  No one smiles."

I once had a cab driver that was from my hometown.  We talked about the mall.

I once had a cab driver who used to play jazz in the West Village, and wore plastic gloves all the time.

I once had a cab driver complain that I wasn't paying with a card instead of with cash.  And then he asked for my number.

I once had a cab driver who gave me a free ride because it was almost Christmas.

One of the greatest political discussions I've ever had was with a cab driver.

I just rode the J train for the first time a few weeks ago.  

How the hell am I gonna write a blog about that?

xxo

Taxi Addict

P.S.  I'm archiving the old posts.  If you really want to see them, send me an email, and then consider getting better things to do.

Send me your stories.

taxiaddictconfessions@gmail.com