The Memo

Everyone is leaving. An interfaith exodus is underway. Did Moses post a “heading for the desert” status update on Facebook? Did I miss the crucial “RT @JesusTheChrist: Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death. WE OUT” tweet? Granted I’m behind the curve on this whole new fangled media front. And that’s because I know social networking code was programmed in the fires of hell. But couldn’t they have sent an Evite? Damn you, Mark Zuckerberg!

My friends and family seem to be running out of New York City at such a rate that I have to wonder which crucial Al Queada party list-serv I foolishly unsubscribed from. Just kidding! Dick Cheney, I know you read this blog. Roll on over in that wheelchair and post a comment already.

What do the migrating masses know that I don’t? Why have I not received the “New York Is So Over” Memo?

First it was my cousin who left the urban-apocalypse-chic of Bushwick, Brooklyn for a house with crown molding in New Orleans. Then my other cousin decided to depart after many years in NYC to try her hand at living in the homeland. And by homeland I, of course, mean Israel. What’s an Indalian without a Jewish-Italian cousin? A fake one. Obviously.

Next, my sister went to Chicago to visit her boyfriend.* Apparently she bought a one-way ticket. Thus concludes the story of the youngest Sikdar’s crossing to Second City.

* [Let this non-insult filled bracket stand as an olive branch to the Chicago-Boyfriend, who I once threatened to cut. I’m giving you a pass, Son. This time, you best come correct.]

Then Mr. Microfinance took off for Uganda. Next up on the chopping block my fine friend in all things musical/cultural/and-generally-awesome. She’s kissing her bedbug-invested Brooklyn blues goodbye and taking off for the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Before I know it, my Ex, who I actually still talk to and enjoy spending time with, will most probably be curing cheese somewhere in rural Washington State.

EXODUS! Movement of Mah people.

What’s so tough about this slew of departures is that I only have about five friends. Three of which are related to me. Simply put, I don’t have friends to spare. Between my real job, The Job, and my superiority complex, I don’t make new friends. Have you met me? Probably not. My point exactly.

I don’t have friend-understudies to take these people’s places. These friendships are not like the role of Carol Willick on the sitcom Friends, or Trey Atwood in the teen drama The O.C.* My peeps can’t be replaced by someone new now that the pilot episode’s been shot.

* (Yeah, I just went there. I’m pretty sure this knowledge qualifies me to be a cultural commentator on VH1’s I Love Two Tuesdays Ago. Perry, my imaginary agent who’s recently returned from rehab, get on the phones!)

Yet my refusal to recast the parts of my dear friends could result in my life looking more and more like a terrible experimental art installation/one woman show, in which incoherent monologues are allowed to ramble on with impunity. (Or have I just distilled the essence of this blog? Interesting. Damn The Job is meta.)

More importantly, why are all these wonderful, smart, funny people’s lives evolving away and beyond this city? Granted it’s expensive, and loud, and the only kind of wildlife I’ve seen recently was a dog pinching one off on the sidewalk and the damn pigeon that shit on my puffy vest last week. But I’m just getting settled in NYC. I’m just beginning to turn my swag on. Minus the preposterously gigantic gold watch,but swag is being turned on presently. And now I find my nearest and dearest bouncing here and there and everywhere like a crew of friggin’ Gummi Bears. [Seriously Perry, stop mainlining Johnny Walker and get VH1 on the line.]

If everyone else has received the “New York Is So Done” memo, is my life simply standing still, mired in unimaginative complacency, while others pass me by?

[Cue: Jana furiously “paddles” in front of a construction paper ocean while the poster board canoe, which hides the rest of her seated body, quivers and rattles with audible prop brittleness. She remains in spotlight center stage. Lights begin to fade. She is going nowhere. Re-enter all minor characters who’ve found their life purpose since intermission. They wear glitter top hats and canes and pummel Jana to death with their high kicks and flawless fancy foot work.]

“I’m the one that does the leaving,” I want to shout! But there’s no one around to hear my crazed declarations. They are all gone.

I’m waiting to be overwhelmed by the urge to go on a bone-headed adventure abroad. Perhaps I’ll teach English to a bunch of kids who’d be better served learning how to build a sustainable water purification system. I don’t actually have the skills to teach them anything that useful, so I’ll settle for not contributing much and feeling really self-satisfied.

Waiting. . . . Waiting. . . . And suddenly something deep within me stirs.

But it’s not the desire to leave New York. Perhaps I overdid it with the spicy pickle on my kati roll? ~%~Stomach gurgle~%~ I definitely overdid it.

Have you gotten The Memo to pack that extra axle, cure yourself some buffalo meat, and hitch up your wagon for an adventure that will lead to the fertile lands of your late-twenties? If so, forward that shit to me. I’m tired of being content and left out of all the fleeing fun. Plus my Gaza-Strip-homeland-fleeing outfits are perfect.