You (1). Me (0).

New York City has the singular ability to build you up, inflating you to its enormous heights, just to turn around and regulate on your ass, reminding you in callous subjugation where it is you really stand.

This fall, a series of events occurred in my life that suggested it was taking a much-anticipated turn toward good fortune. Gainfully employed, I had finally moved to the sort of neighborhood where cab drivers don’t feel the need to wish you luck in your journey from the car to your doorstep. Flying high after a couple of weekends in the Hamptons and the release of a hip-hop song that promises this concrete jungle is the stuff of dreams [you know you love it], I was finally starting to feel that I was beginning to, you know, make it.

This was until one Saturday afternoon when I was taking a downtown 6 train home from brunch. Seated in one of the most crowded cars, it took me a stop or two to realize that the man standing directly in front of me had unfastened his zipper and exposed himself. Most women would have probably taken immediate notice to such an exhibit, but given the scarce presence of this phenomenon in my personal life, my radar isn’t as keen as it once was.

My initial reaction was to vomit, until I remembered that I’d spent half a day’s wages on brunch. Instead I sat motionless until my stop – staring at a stranger’s junk – and realized what was happening. This was the City’s twisted way of reminding that I am still a public transit rider with no proprietary wealth to speak of. This, of course, was no secret; One look at my account balance would have settled any question about that. But only New York has provided me with such a crass reminder of my status quo. Thank you. Touché. You win.