plight of the transplant

Look at me. Three days in a row of blogging. Wow.

Inspired by recent blog posts I've read and conversations I have had lately with co-workers comes the following post. . .

When I first moved to this city I was constantly, and I mean constantly, asked how long I was going to be here. When was I going home? I'd get this from both sides: new people I'd met here and friends and family members back home. (Many of whom couldn't believe that'd actually mustered the cajones to do this thing. True story.) I have repeatedly said that there is no expiration date on my time in New York nearly 3 1/2 years in I still feel like I just got here. Just did this big thing and couldn't possibly imagine "undoing it" (well, leaving isn't undoing it but you get what I mean...)

I've made no bones about the fact that 2010 was the year nostalgia wore off. It was the year what was glittery and dazzling became boring and commonplace. Add self-induced pressure and yeah. . . Not a good recipe. But I came out of the year knowing that I'm still in it for the forseeable future. No expiring any time soon.

But every now and then the question circles around again. How long do I see myself here? Will I be walking these streets in ten years? Will I be driving down the road of a nearby city? Will I be back where I came from? Will I be lying on the beach of my own private island having struck it rich and completely "arrived"? (If only!)

Anyone with a pulse has asked him or herself if the status quo is working. If this is how it is really supposed to be. At least once in a lifetime, that is. And for a planner like me (whose lists have lists) doing the whole "It'll happen." thing is tough. Once I got over the hump of actually building a life here, I started thinking about how exactly I'm going to make the reality and the envisioned look more alike.

The million-dollar question for any one of the millions of single gals in this damned city is how in the hell are we going to find someone? No, let's broaden that. Not just someone. Something too. The something we're meant for with the someone we want. And for the transplants, for whom the ties aren't inherant and for whom no familial ties really exist, I think it is inevitable that we question - Is it meant to happen elsewhere? When do we turn around and say "I'm not sure I want this anymore." When do we make the decision about whether we are lifers? Do we decide at all?

I'm not complaining. I'm not moping. I had a wonderfully content Valentine's Day yesterday. I'm not standing on the edge of any ledge. It is hard not to think ahead when thinking ahead is what you do. Sometimes I flirt with giving myself an ultimatum but that's just not fair.

And as I told a co-worker the other day, I'm taking it one lease at a time.

Is it the city? I know you NYC gals can probably relate. Do others in different cities feel this way too? Is it the plight of the transplant? It can hardly just be limited to that but perhaps I feel it is more pronounced when you're the one who struck out. You're the one who is trying to make it work. Solo.