Throughout my teens and also into my young adult years, dance in New York was always my love. As corny as it sounds, all of the meaningless dates and imaginary boyfriends never quite cut it. Although I searched, I never found the type of love that lasts a lifetime.
I failed for the final time in 1985. I remember thinking that I'd finally done it. At the age of almost 19, I'd become a New Yorker. I slept a night with my head on a kitchen table in a filthy apartment that was supposed to be my sublet with another dancer. Live here? No way. I scoured the city that day and searched for a cleaner alternative with no success. A large one bedroom on the Upper East Side at $700 a month sounded too good to be true, and it was.
The outside of my house in Atlanta...
A few years passed, and I had an opportunity to migrate to the South, and Atlanta became my home for 12 years. I met my husband, started a business, owned a big house, had more friends than I could count, and accomplished all that is expected as a thirty-something.
My living room in Atlanta...
The following year, I began visiting Manhattan again, and not to my surprise, I fell in love like the first time. I began to dream the dream more than 20 years later. My nostalgia returned, and it was more intense than my early years. I looked for every opportunity to come back to the city, again and again, sometimes several times in one year. I would daydream on almost a daily basis at one point. I thought that I'd never be in New York permanently, but I could fantasize about living life in the city.
It was always New York.
Now that I'm a New Yorker and proud to be one, I have to coin the phrase – "True love never dies." And after all, any love that enduring deserves another chance.