Spring is going to have to show up and stick around soon, or someone will get hurt.

Our return to the city on Monday was like a warm hug. Sunny, temperatures in the sixties.  Almost like New York wanted us back.  And Tuesday was beautiful as well.  I actually got hot on my run.  Had to stop myself from complaining about that.  Then, on the way home, I passed a man who had his hair pulled back in a bun and was wearing the eye-catching ensemble of black bra, leopard-print camisole, and gold bike shorts.  And I asked myself, Can I really leave this? Because let’s be honest, when that vision is part of your day, what can compete?

In Atlanta last weekend, the BF and I were stopped at a light and looked over to see a man in a tuxedo dancing on the corner.  I felt my heart lift and I thought that maybe Atlanta had its own brand of crazy that would replace, or at least partially fill, the reservoir I’ve developed for it after living in New York City for five years.  Then I realized he was holding a sign for a nearby apartment complex.  Just another sane person working to make ends meet.  What’s the fun in that?

So when I passed the she-man on Tuesday, I felt strangely relieved.  Because the crazy people here don’t hide behind a mask of Having It All Together. I come from a place, after all, where “Bless your heart” really means “That dress is ugly and your husband is gay.”  What people really think is buried somewhere behind the grits in the back cabinet.  But here in New York, gay men live in Chelsea with their boyfriends, not in suburbia with their wives.  And you will hear from one of them if your dress is, in fact, ugly.  For a girl on the path from Mask-Wearing, Religion-Wielding Rule Follower to Flaw-Admitting, Relationship-Living Free Person, New York is a get out of jail free card.

There are the days when that truth is enough, a reassuring breath of fresh air.  And then there are the days when it rains.

Something occurred to me as I was walking home from work with my Yankee-Mom-gifted perky sunflower umbrella over my head.  The wind was bitch-slapping me in the face and it felt like I was in a wrestling match with the devil himself to get control of that umbrella.  The rain pelted my eyes and I began to think bad thoughts. About how much I hate my job now that I’m leaving soon and don’t have to make the best of it.   About how I really do NOT want to show particular people grace because they are acting like complete asshats.  About just how ugly a pit I could sink into if I kept at this line of thinking.  And I realized that I was a walking illustration of my own hypocrisy: storms all around me, nasty thoughts within, but still holding up a cheery umbrella like a flag announcing who I should be.  And who I am so not.

And then, more humbling.  When I texted the Sis “I hate my job,” she wrote back “Who doesn’t?”  When the BF suggested that maybe I could be the bigger person and my response was, “I hate being the bigger person,” he gave me a knowing smile and replied, “Jesus hated dying on the cross.”

Truth breaks through.  Unlike the sun, which is still hiding like a little girl as the rain pours outside my window.  The same rain that will pelt my face on the way to work tomorrow because I live in New York and I walk to work and because tomorrow is Saturday and in New York people work on Saturday.  This city has freed me, but it has also slapped me around a fair amount.  And when I fight the elements tomorrow morning I know that the sunflower over my head will belie how I’m feeling inside. But I also know that being a walking contradiction bothers me now like it never did five years ago, and somewhere in that frustration is where the truth peeks through. With a little help from friends, family, and asshats.