Definition of FAILURE
1 a : omission of occurrence or performance; specifically : a failing to perform a duty or expected action b (1) : a state of inability to perform a normal function — compare heart failure (2) : an abrupt cessation of normal functioning c : a fracturing or giving way under stress
2 a : lack of success b : a failing in business : bankruptcy
3 a : a falling short : deficiency b : deterioration, decay
4 : one that has failed
As much as my cruel, over-active, over-analytical brain would like to tell me that I have failed over and over again, I am going to go ahead and say that according to Merriam Webster, I am not yet a failure.
Because according to these definitions, failure is a ‘lack of success.’ Which would indicate that I have never succeeded in anything I’ve ever done — which is not true — or that I would never succeed at anything in the future — which is undetermined as no one knows the future. So the only way I could be a failure, is if I gave up and stopped trying to succeed.
These last few weeks in NY have been hard. And stressful. And made me want to walk around the city snarling at anyone who looks in my direction. Yesterday, someone on the street actually knocked me over. It
would have been is comical, had I not already had a pretty un-awesome day. Of course, the person was simply in a hurry to get where he was going just like the rest of the ten-million people in NYC, and apologized profusely as he was running away, but it did not mollify the murderous thoughts I was having at that point.
A few weeks ago, I’m pretty sure I was the most pitiful sight in the city. I had had a long, incredibly stressful day at work, and it was an emotionally difficult anniversary on top of that. I was tired, cranky, and it was raining outside. Of course, I did not know it was going to rain when I dressed that morning, and therefore was wearing poorly made boots and had no umbrella. So, I was standing on the corner in a puddle without an umbrella, trying to hail a cab. My feet were soaked, my hair was plastered to my face, and I was trying very hard not to lose it in front of the traffic cop who was eying me curiously. I was the main character in some sort of romantic comedy, for sure.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love NYC. Love it. It has been really good for me in many different ways, and I’ve been really happy here. Maybe that was the problem. I was too happy. NYC has some sort of happiness meter, and when it detects that a person is too happy, it beats them to the ground to keep the balance. To maintain the 10:1 miserable person to happy person ratio that it insists on keeping. Maybe that’s why NYC is so great — you have to work so much harder to be happy, and therefore appreciate success/happiness more when you achieve it.
This is just one person’s observation of the city after spending five months here, but I’m pretty sure a lot of people agree that you generally have a love/hate relationship with the city most of the time. It’s like a cat. Soft, cute, and cuddly sometimes, and other times it hisses at you and sharpens its claws on your face while you’re sleeping.
Alas, this is the real world, and with the real world comes adult responsibilities, and with adult responsibilities comes heartache. I am no different nor more special than any other person trying to survive in this world — I just like to write about it, in hopes that my comical stories can make some other person smile or laugh.
</3… ❤ NYC.