Like growing out a peach fuzz moustache

Living in Paris last year wasn't void of lonely days, but I always found comfort in a walk around the city late at night; there was something about the historical buildings that made me feel among old friends. Even today when I think about visiting again, it isn't the people that I fear unable to leave at the end of my stay (email does wonders for international friendships). It's the idea of leaving the goddamn buildings that I fear will be too much to handle.

Last night I ended up taking a walk around midtown to join Sarah, Anne and Justin for some St. Patty's day festivities. The Empire State Building was lit up in green for the occasion and I started down Madison Avenue and then continued along Bryant Park, enjoying a stroll among the familiar shadows. And then! A spark!

I haven't loved New York since last summer when I was first thrilled with moving back after a sunny weekend on the Brooklyn Bridge. I haven't even liked New York since then, and I've often out-and-out hated it. But last night it was like back in the sixth grade when you realize that those boys in your class, those gross, sweaty, whiny boys, well, they were kind of cute, at least to a version of yourself that wore braces and purple headbands.

That's really what puberty is, isn't it? Finding out that the very thing you hated is actually the best thing ever. My New York puberty hit last night as I turned the corner and saw the GREEN lights down one avenue and the wise old Public Library down another. It was as if New York laced up his Michael Jordan high tops, wiped the Hi-C juice from his lips, and winked in my direction.

And in response, I adjusted my scrunchie and blushed right back.

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