Because, really, minus her perfect figure, perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect smile, perfect clothes, wealth, fame and talent, we’re basically the same person.
That’s what I thought today as I came bounding down the stairs of my new Upper West Side abode for the first time. (The journey up to my fourth-floor walk-up would not be described so much as bounding as doing a spot-on Darth Vader impression. “Luke [heavy breathing], I need a freakin’ elevator”).
Sure, my skirt doesn’t swish like Meg’s does, and in the New York City humidity my hair is not so much “precious pixie” as “no, I did not just stick my finger in an electrical outlet but I understand why you would think so.”
And, sure, I don’t own a children’s bookstore (the thought of which I hope brings you as much amusement as it does me), and I’m not about to discover Tom Hanks is the love of my life. Not that I’m aware of, anyway. But as Oprah says, one must always be open to the possibility of love anywhere and anytime. (Actually, I have no idea if she ever said that. But now that she’s off the air, what are we to do other than come up with completely obvious platitudes sage bits of wisdom and attribute them to her?)
But still. If you confuse me with Meg Ryan now, I’ll totally understand.
For those of you who do not have wives and girlfriends who forced you have not been lucky enough to see the film You’ve Got Mail, allow me to invite you into my delusional world in which my life now somehow resembles that of Meg Ryan’s in this late-90s rom-com simply because I now live in the same neighborhood as her fictional character, Kathleen Kelly.
I’m not really one for rom-coms generally. And by that I mean I refuse to publicly admit to liking them and instead hide them in DVD jackets for snooty foreign language films and pull them out in the privacy of my own home when I’m feeling like I need to have my faith in love restored.
OK, that’s not true. I hide them in DVD jackets for snooty foreign language films and pull them out in the privacy of my own home when I’m sharing a night at home with a companion I like to call A Bottle of Wine That Tastes Like It Cost $4.99 Because It Cost $4.99.
But I have no shame in admitting my love for You’ve Got Mail. (OK, I have a little bit of shame. But after one Photoshops a Christmas card of Leonardo DiCaprio and herself in matching sweaters, copping to a fondness for a slightly schmaltzy movie is nothing.)
Here’s the thing. I don’t adore the movie because of its love story. I adore it because it is as much about the Upper West Side as it is about the idea that, sometimes, meeting up with someone you became acquainted with in a chat room does not result in your dead body being dumped in the East River but rather in sharing a tasteful kiss with a man in Dockers in Riverside Park.
Indeed, I fell head-over-heels in love with the beautiful brownstones and tree-lined streets and tantalizing eateries and charming boutiques of Kathleen’s neighborhood when I first saw the movie almost 13 years ago. And I decided then that I would live there one day.
And now, today, I can officially call myself a resident of the Upper West Side.
My new apartment may be smaller than some of your bathrooms, but it’s cute. And it’s mine. And every morning I will emerge from it and enter a world of beautiful brownstones and tree-lined streets and tantalizing eateries and charming boutiques.
Today I can cross one item off 18-Year-Old Jill’s List of Things To Do Before Turning 40.
It used to be 18-Year-Old Jill’s List of Things to Do Before Turning 30, but 18-year-old Jill had little appreciation for how quickly one’s 30s sneak up on her and how much time is consumed in one’s 20s by trying to find the right career, drinking bad beer and dating men for whom “commitment” means signing up for the DIRECTV football package two seasons at a time.
But now I’m 30 and older and wiser … and so I drink bad wine instead of bad beer.
Today I became a resident of the Upper West Side.
I did something new.
Tags: New York City, postaday2011, Upper West Side, you've got mail









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