I recently moved from the suburbs of New Jersey to an apartment on the Upper East Side — not a bad upgrade for a rising senior in college, eh? Well, it’s my mom’s apartment, but whatever.
Some people believe that their dead relatives in heaven watch over them. I don’t believe in life after death, but I do believe that I have someone watching over me: my doorman. Or doormen, I should say.
My doormen come in many different shapes and sizes. Some are older than others, some have tattoos, others have white hair, and a few are bald. The one thing they all have in common though, is the pledge they took to protect me and the rest of the residents of my apartment from the dangers of Manhattan’s streets. But, mostly me.
They’re more than just defenders of a building though, they also guard my secrets. My doormen see me at my best and my worst. They’ve seen me stumbling into the lobby at 3:30 a.m. with a pizza box in hand and alcohol stained breath. They’ve seen me at 11 a.m. on Saturday morning, bra-less and in pajamas, on my way to get a bagel for my hangover cure.
My doormen have seen me leaving to workout, only to return from a run 15 minutes later. They’ve seen my Seamless delivery men go up to my room. They’ve seen me kissing my Tinder dates goodbye at the door, and they’ve seen my exchanges with my dealer.
They’ve watched me picking my nose, picking out wedgies, and picking my fingers in the elevator. The surveillance cameras have caught me making out with booty calls, and they’ve also caught me making uncomfortable conversation with neighbors.
Thank you, doormen, for silently watching me as I go about my millennial daily life, and for giving me packages to deliver to my online-shopping addict mother.
Although I don’t know any of your names or your favorite colors, you know more about me than most of my Facebook friends. Thanks for having my back and for opening the door for me even though I am perfectly capable of doing it on my own.
Forever yours (until I move out of my mom's house)