This weekend I'm on strike. Well, except for the half hour I spent this evening checking my work email and downloading some documents for my next assignments, seriously- it's the first weekend since I started when I will not be working. Being Yekki, my striking is kind of revolutionary. I finally realized though that because I'm so crispy-fried, if I don't devote this weekend to trying to unwind, I won't be physically able to put in yet another 50 hours come Monday. So I actually have a few minutes to blog. :=) (And search for a teapot. Seems like Brooklyn only contains tea kettles, which begs the question: What do all the communities who drink tea do when their teapot breaks? Someone please fill me in on the mystery...)
It occurred to me today as I was talking to my friend that as much as I have what to say about living in Brooklyn, and much of it is of the "WTH"-kind, perhaps the problem actually lies with ME. I mean listen, I wasn't born and raised here, so I don't find life here to be remotely normal. But for 90% of my neighbours, Flatbush and/or Boro Park is all that they have known. This is LIFE for them, the only one they can fathom living, and just because my life lies in stark contrast to theirs doesn't mean that the problem is them or Brooklyn for that matter. Rather, the problem seems to lie with me and having to adjust to an existence that flies in the face of all I have previously known and cared about. In other words, their life is normal for them, and that's 100% valid. I consequently either have to learn to suck it up or move elsewhere.
While I may not love Flatbush then, not to mention some (ok, a lot) of the stuff that goes on here, since I choose to live here, that's my problem, not anyone else's.
Good Voch.
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