Tomorrow is my final day at The Daily Caller. Laura the office manager will be bringing in donuts for the morning, and when I mentioned this to my Boston grandma tonight, she responded, “Laura, you’re the only person I know who can eat donuts. Everyone else becomes ill at the sight of them, but not you.”
My nana is spot on about that. One of the first things I did upon arriving at Penn Station last week was retreat to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts, of which my grandma is fan. She loves the iced coffee, and the business is oddly comforting. I like the venue because it reminds me of Boston, where my dad’s relatives reside, and they in turn bring back fond memories of him.
Monday would have been his 63rd birthday. Ironically, October 10 was my official start date at Levo (League), which is based in Manhattan, my dad’s favorite city in the world. He lived there until his thirties and somehow managed to navigate the clogged streets in his yellow cab. His secret? Driving slow. Though the weather brought him down and overall east coast attitude become too abrasive for his bubbly personality, my dad loved New York more than any other place in the world. In high school, he’d occasionally sing Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” in his office upstairs. His heart was there, and before he knew he was going to die, he told me that he wanted to move away from California because he’d grown bored with suburban life. After a while, the beach and redwoods simply weren’t enough for him.
For that same reason, I’m relocating up to NYC. Tonight, I wrote tons of goodbye notes to my superiors and co-workers, and the act was slightly reminiscent of schoolyard yearbook signing. Only this time, I’m the only one doing the signing.
In junior high and my early years of high school, I took yearbook signing as an opportunity to confess things I was too afraid to share with people in person. As a high school freshman, I approached the boy I liked on the last day of P.E. class and asked him to write me a message in my yearbook. Without saying a word, he scribbled a one-liner onto the inside cover of my yearbook but didn’t invite me to sign his yearbook. Right then and there, I longed to tell him how I felt, but let the moment pass me by. Shortly after rereading the generic “see ya next year” note, the bell rang and he skateboarded back to his house. As I moved at a glacial pace towards the parking lot, I mentally beat myself up for not taking a leap of him. Now I had to wait three months to cross paths with this fellow again. You better believe I kept an eye open for him that summer, and though we lived in a tiny foothills town of 11,000, I didn’t see him until the first day of tenth grade.
A yearbook is not necessarily the place to detail a big secret, but I’ve always had an easier time expressing my thoughts in print than in person, so letters work better for me than confrontations. In my goodbye cards to my colleagues and bosses, I thank them for looking out for me and giving me hilarious, fun memories of my first post-college job. Luckily for me, everything that needed to be said has already been relayed and communicated in the past, so I won’t head off to New York feeling like there was something else I should have said or done in DC. In fact, I probably overstayed my welcome in this city, but I’m glad to take off.
May NYC bring many new friends, memories, and experiences.