Amy Middleton Loves New York

Years ago , I read an article attempting to dispel the theory that advertising sells sex. If it did, went the argument I can’t find to properly reference, people would have sex more and that would be it. Instead, advertising sells dissatisfaction with sex, and subtly positions products as the solution. We buy, spend, and consume more as a result, but in the end aren’t any more satisfied.

I have been wondering lately if my dissatisfaction with, well, “urbaness” generally and my neighborhood specifically, is truly the call of the wild it’s felt to for the past year. I love the idea of working the land, caring for animals, and living more honestly and simply. But such a life is not inherently found in all places outside of Manhattan. I’m not even sure whether it exists anywhere. Even California has seasons, and I have yet to find the perfect city that can offer me a yard, an airport, and a reasonable alternative to a personal vehicle.

I love this city. Admittedly it can be a seasonal affair, but it’s hard to not feel that New York is the blood that runs through my veins, and without it survival would not be possible. Its taxes, rent, rudeness, apathy, effort, shared walls, infestations, attitude, costs, artificiality, pollution, “customer service,” hedonism, selfishness, and vulgarity can certainly take its toll on me. The thing that’s keeping me from running for the hills is well-explained by John Steinbeck. “There is one thing about it. Once you have lived in New York, and it has become your home, no place else is good enough.”