Harry Styles, New York City, and the Girl I Left Behind
Photo Courtesy | Christine Carpenter
BY CHRISTINE CARPENTER
Boa feathers in a rainbow of colors litter the steps outside Four Pennsylvania Plaza. Faux quills dancing with the gust of wind from pedestrians and concert-goers, the only remnants of a sold-out show. Less than an hour ago, Madison Square Garden was vibrating, the stadium seating quaking beneath us. I am 34 years old and have just experienced my first Harry Styles concert and first trip back into Manhattan, the city in which, only two years prior, I spent most of my waking hours.
A 73-minute ride deposits me at the train station, and after a drive in the thick heatwave of a late summer evening, I arrive back at my front steps. I have a hard time believing that I used to make this daily trek back and forth into New York City. Closing the door quietly behind me, I turn the lock, and immediately begin stripping off layers. The slinky lace tank that leaves little to the imagination is the first to noiselessly hit the floor, my distressed jeans, and a designer belt with a gold logo buckle lands with a thud as I cringe, hoping I haven’t woken my son. Once upon a time, I spent nearly a paycheck on that belt. Now, I am paid in wet toddler kisses. I climb the steps of our condominium in the suburbs, peeling back pieces of clothing that I unearthed from the caverns of my closet; a costume from a former life. My skin is still chilled from the air conditioner blast, armpits are still slick with sweat. I exhale. I’m home.
I went back into Manhattan for the first time since I was seven months pregnant, before COVID shut everything down. The girl I used to be is gone. Wearing her old clothes, I grieve her, miss her, and long for her freedom. And still, I wouldn’t want to go back to be her. Sure, she was thinner, less exhausted, and her hairline had not yet been invaded by a smattering of gray baby hairs. She wore more makeup, tighter jeans, and a pretend smile. She is from another time, another place, another life. She balanced New York City fashion industry life with life in the suburbs. Now, she balances a toddler on an aching hip. She was much more frightened, far less sure of herself.
A scalding shower and my disintegrating loofah assist in scrubbing the city off of my skin. Its noise, abrasive nature, and dank odor swirls down the drain, a juxtaposition of soot and rotting garbage draining beside my son’s bright plastic stackable boats and Sesame Street squeeze bath toys. Clean and dry, I slip on a pair of cotton underwear washed to second-skin perfection, and my husband's shirt, as I shimmy under the covers. Even with my eyes sealed shut, the hysterical screams from thousands of girls echo, ringing mercilessly in my ears. I’ve been away from the routine of stay-at-home mama for just a few hours, and I already feel rejuvenated. I dipped my feet back into the world in which I once belonged, and it was enough to make me miss the life I have. I welcome the soft snores emanating from both of my boys in our bed; ages two and 37.
Going back tonight was interlaced with so much emotion. Butterflies invaded my abdomen, wings flapping so rapidly as if I was planning to meet an old boyfriend. I had the muscle memory of taking the train but my commute didn’t feel the same. I remembered the pace it took to get to my old office on 36th Street and Fifth Avenue. The gold-leaf building, once dedicated to wholesale women’s accessories, once filled with display cases of the next season’s fashion, has been replaced with stark walls and a sterile, L-shaped reception desk. Gone are the wholesalers of major department stores, the dictator’s of trend. The building now operates primarily as a co-working space. A sandwich board positioned in front of the heavy glass doors reads: “Tough times never last, but New Yorkers do.” The sentiment feels watered down, as it is surrounded by more vacant real estate than I’ve ever seen in the thirteen years that I called this building a second home. This is not the city I unknowingly left behind in the winter of 2020.
My childhood friend and I sipped Moscow mules in copper cups, the carbonated ginger exploding on our tongues as the oppressive heat of summer broke. An unexpected comfortable breeze carried with it a barrage of noise: sirens, taxi horns, and the squeal of brakes. New York City is a blanket of sound that can feel as suffocating as a turtleneck sweater during a panic attack or tempting like that old tattooed ex-boyfriend you can’t seem to resist. I’ve missed her — my city, my friend, and myself.
New York City, once a friend and comrade, is now a stranger I meet for drinks. A city I have a brief affair with, and then venture back to the safety of my family.
For over a decade, commuting nearly two hours each way into Manhattan was a daily practice. It drove tiredness in my bones that at the time I deemed incapacitating until I experienced the early months with a newborn. I can think of nothing else comparable to that exhaustion.
My world has gotten smaller, and somehow exponentially larger, all at once. I couldn’t go back to that life if I wanted to. The pristine white showroom shelves likely live beneath rotting remnants of disposed dinners in a dumpster in Queens. But the truth is — even if everything I created still sat displayed on those shelves, brightly lit, waiting in all their glory for a savvy department store buyer to validate my hard work with an order, I wouldn’t want to go back. The landscape of life is entirely different, weathered, eroded down to the bare bones of who I am. It’s as if I’ve been plucked from one planet and dropped off on the next. Someone handed me a writhing baby, while the world shut down amid a global crisis. Someone handed me myself, the woman I would show up to be in my next chapter.
I toss and turn, thinking about tonight, my first show at the Garden in years. How when the lights flicked on, a family of four filed out in the row in front of us: mother, father, sister and brother. I lock eyes with the girl, who, based on my best assumption, is around late-middle-school-to-early-high-school age.
We exchanged a glance of a shared high — equal parts giddy teenage girl (her in reality and me in my mind) — both blown away by the performance we just experienced together.
“I’m a new person,” she declared, her dry sense of humor tickling me. A hearty laugh escaped my belly, and I nodded.
So am I, I thought. So am I.
CHRISTINE CARPENTER is a mother and storyteller from New York. She is passionate about composing and sharing her journey through non-fiction stories, poetry, and an iPhone camera roll with over 70,000 images. She approaches her craft with a strong intent to make women feel less alone in motherhood, anxiety, and creative living. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys knitting, asking too many questions, reading, and most of all, quality time with her family.