“This is a Brooklyn-bound local “6” train,” a mechanized female voice announced. Her tone reminded me of the anchors—detached yet seductive. I quickly stepped into the car, pressing my purse firmly to my side…

I like to be alone in the mornings, take breakfast on my patio with chicory coffee and cream, “Ceci-Cela” croissants, the “New York Times.” An above-the-fold article, sugar, half-and-half in the mug, yeast and warmth in the air from “Vesuvio Bakery” several blocks away…

The waking hours are hopeful.

The overnight shift didn’t allow me these quiet, expectant moments. Sometimes I’d walk from the Midtown headquarters to Grand Central, trying to feel everyone else’s expectation and promise. But, I was already numb—the dark hours blended into the morning light. Gray.

Chignon unraveling, eyes dry and reddened from the dank, newsroom air, I boarded the subway for home. Professional New York was just beginning its day as I ended mine, heading home to an apartment with no curtains. Six fitful hours of sleep awaited me—my reward—until I had to wake up and do it all over again.

Hssssss. The “6” train opened and disgorged passengers…

I’m 25 years old. I live in a 300 square foot box. I’m not gainfully employed. Yet, somehow, my sister, S., named me next-of-kin. I’m supposed to protect the little one (my brilliant, 2-month old niece) if anything should happen to S. and her husband. Where will I put the little bundle of molecules—in my tub? When I go for oysters and Sancerre at “Balthazar,” where will I leave her—with the coat check lady, hoping she won’t get lost in a mountain of mink?

A baby and Belle and New York City…

“You ever gonna have one of these up in the city?” my sister asked me as she lay in mother’s four-poster bed… 

I’m alone with my thoughts, a Pacino film, a plate of gorgeous, roasted peppers, a hunk of Manchego, a glass of Spanish rose’. I’m not wearing two coats of mascara or a hint of perfume; my neck smells of nothing more than Dial soap. My face is bare, exposed—the shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Tonight, I didn’t worry about purses and panty lines and lipstick on my teeth. The white tank and terry cloth slippers suit my couch just fine—

Two mice just darted across the kitchen floor, ducked into the radiator.

Never had to worry about those down South… but, it’s all a trade-off, right? I’ll take a mouse or two if I can keep my foreign film theatres, fresh ravioli store, gilded reading room at the 42nd Street library, off-Broadway plays, run-ins with Benjamin Bratt in Union Square, wine bars on Clinton Street, midnight writing classes, evenings on my terrace with quirky neighbors.

Tradeoffs, tradeoffs, tradeoffs…is this what adult life is all about? Is “having it all” a myth concocted by Hollywood? When I was in high school, I would run down to the bay, stare across the dark brown water until it reached the green of the Gulf. I told myself that I would do it all, have it all. There was the journalism career, wealthy husband, apartments in Paris and Rome, famous friends… the list went on and on.

Mamma made concessions. She quit a successful career in journalism to take care of four kids—me, my two sisters, my father. She left her typewriter (yes, back then they used typewriters) for the stove, the washing machine, the neighborhood bake sale in July. No more trips to her favorite castle in Ireland or to the tapas bars of Madrid. The life she knew ended so her family’s life could begin. I vowed that I would never give up anything (Me! Me! Me!); “compromise” was not in my vocabulary.

Now, I concede more. Instead of a helicopter out to the Hamptons, I take a commuter plane back down South for a slow weekend of dinners by the lake, babies, walks around the farm. I have a five o’clock toddy with my grandparents instead of champagne with the Italians at “Da Silvano.” I visit Southern Boy in Birmingham instead of telling him to come to the City. Is this growing up or am I on the slippery slope to forgetting about me and remembering the needs of everyone else?