My specialty is living.

I sometimes feel like my life isn’t real. Like my life isn’t really happening to me. It takes something sort of drastic or out of the ordinary to make me realize, but when it happens it hits me and there I am, looking around the sides and over tops of buildings to the sky and feeling like I’m living someone else’s life.

I’m walking the streets holding a box of books and packages of press kits for work, searching for a cab at 6:30 PM on Friday, the Friday before a long weekend, and all the cabs are full. The streets are jam packed - what gridlock really means - rush hour and everyone is rushing and no one is moving anywhere.

So here I am, covering blocks, my arms getting heavy, trying to, on street corners, position the box and packages against my hip so as to have one free hand to hail down the already full cabs. I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I’ve found that a good rule of thumb (whatever that means) in New York is, that at the exact moment you’re starting to feel embarrassed or ridiculous (which for me is quite often) say to yourself “This is New York. I can do whatever I want.” It’s amazing the power two words can have.

Drivers shake their heads at me as they wait at red lights, passengers stare at me mockingly as they inch by. I’m suddenly talking to myself, suddenly becoming John McEnroe and saying things like “You cannot be serious,” shaking my head and thinking, “This is New York. I have to be able to get a cab.” Because I’m on a mission to deliver above mentioned items to The Palace Hotel and I already know I don't get paid enough to be doing this.

I finally hail a cab and the driver is tired and has just unleashed his last passenger and is ready to turn off his light. He sees the state I’m in and makes an exception, almost rolling his eyes when I tell him I have to go to the East Side in rush hour traffic on the Friday before a long weekend.

Along the way he talks to himself and eats a burrito and I stare out of the window, my arms tired (is it time to start lifting weights?) and watch the people on the sidewalks, the warmly lit restaurants with the Friday night crowd just arriving for drinks and dinner and a night out on the town. The bars full of suits and skirts, all people wanting to drown away the last five days and the last five hours and maybe even the last five minutes.

I make it to 50th, give the Talking (and somewhat crazy) Driver $15 ($3 tip), slide across the back seat and try heft the load out of the cab without falling over. A man in a navy blue suit and a power tie holds the door open for me and barely waits for me to make my less than graceful exit before pushing his way into the backseat, the smell of single malt scotch thick on his breath.

The Palace is what the name suggests, and when I stumble into this grand hotel, lost and overwhelmed, in my Casual Friday jeans (and black turtle neck sweater) I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t care. This is New York. In line at the concierge, the man in front of me is complaining about a lost reservation and his wife looks at me with an apologetic smile. She’s decked out in vintage Chanel and cradling her Hermes bag in the crook of her elbow. I want to tell her she can get carpal tunnel for holding her bag that way, but then again, that might just be the pain talking that’s shooting from my own forearms down to the tips of my fingers, the weight of the 20lb box getting heavier the longer I stand here listening to this man carry on with “Roger” about his “very seriously made this two months ago” reservation. Roger finally gets around to taking what I’ve come to give him, just when I feel the sweat start to drip down my back, even though he calls someone in “Mail Box Services” to make sure it’s okay. This is The Palace I want to tell him. This is New York.

Outside on the street my arms feel like they’re still holding the weight of the boxes - but maybe that’s just the left over weight of this past week leaving its lasting impression. I start the walk up to seventy-second because I have $1 left after my cab ride and generous tip and can’t afford anything more. As I make my way up Madison, passing all of the warmly lit restaurants with all of the people sitting down to dinner, I feel for the first time today, the chill in the air, the chill telling me that fall is here and that I missed summer saying "see you next year," on it's way out the squeaky screen door.

There. That’s when it hits me. In this moment walking on Madison Ave, couples holding hands passing me on the street, twenty-five blocks from home, I feel like my life isn’t real, like my life isn’t really happening to me. Like someone in some distant city in some distant town is living a life that makes more sense. But soon the feeling starts to rush back to my limbs, and as I get closer to home I look around the sides and over the tops of buildings to the sky and realize - this is New York.