Ten years and two weeks ago, inside of her Pittsburgh apartment, my then-girlfriend-now-ex-wife popped the question:
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:: Do you want to move to New York? |
(actual picture of my then-girlfriend-now-ex-wife)
For someone with my background – specifically, an Upstate Republican from Cowtown who grew up loathing the City as a cesspool and a snake pit – it isn’t actually surprising that I only needed a second-and-a-half to answer.
Perhaps more surprising is that I answered yes.
Or maybe not surprising at all – after spending my teen years believing that my destiny lie in Buffalo, I went to Pitt on a whim – the idea planted by a piece of recruiting mail that I might give a try at living in (and please don’t laugh) The Big City of Pittsburgh.
Why it was the Pitt brochure that did it for me, and not the fact that my best friend was going to Chicago, I have no idea.
Anyway. My decision to move to New York:
(1) Poorly-reasoned out.
(2) Has worked out better than any other decision I’ve ever made about anything, ever.
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