Sticking to Manhattan — Why Leave When You Just Arrived?

Let me preface this story with a fact: I’m not old. But I have come to terms with aging. I wear my (three) silver hairs proudly. I check out rental cars with abandon. I’ve even accepted that my daily layer of Kiehl’s SPF 3,000 cannot stop the twinkle of a wrinkle forming beneath my left eye. Plus, when getting old feels too overwhelming, I can always remind myself that I’m two months younger than Taylor Swift.

In spite of the maturity with which I’ve approached the situation, there is one aspect of aging that I refuse to accept: the mass migration to Brooklyn. Not the hip, cool Brooklyn that Lena Dunham has created in Girls where people pee in the streets and accidentally do crack. We’re talking Proper Brooklyn: Park Slope, Brooklyn Heights and Williamsburg post-2010 — the kind of Brooklyn where there are not only rich hipsters, but also upscale froyo chains. (Super Really Far East Willamsburg, or whatever we’re calling Bushwick these days, is obviously exempt.)

The exodus happened overnight. It started with casual, Manhattan dinner party banter: “I want an apartment where my shower isn’t in the kitchen,” and, “A rat ate my Cap’n Crunch.” Harmless at first, these musings soon morphed into a compass pointing in one direction: Brooklyn.

My first friend moved because, “it really is such an easier commute to Midtown East.” The next said she could afford an apartment with an actual bedroom door there. (Hello, greedy.) Before I knew it, half of my friends were sharing spacious Brooklyn apartments with their live-in significant others. Some of them even owned their places. When did we all become so grown-up?

Then there’s me. I’m the girl who spent so many years preparing for the appearance of Instagrammed weddings and babies that I forgot to look out for other signs. And now here I sit in my Manhattan studio, walking distance from fantastic bars and shopping I can’t afford, but 45 minutes away from my closest friends.

I’ve developed an unnaturally large grudge against Brooklyn. The same way you might hate your ex’s new girlfriend, I blame the borough for taking my loved ones away. East River ferries, it’s your fault for giving my pals convenient and easy access to Manhattan. Williamsburg, your gentrification has ruined my life (except for the Urban Outfitters rooftop bar, which is actually pretty cool). The only thing I can rely on is the G train, which continues to provide absolutely no use whatsoever to anyone.

I’m planting my flag firmly in Manhattan. You can all move to Brooklyn, and then on to Jersey. Or Connecticut! Plan your weddings. Have your babies. Do whatever you want, but I’m staying right here.

Maybe I’ve seen too many Woody Allen movies, or read too many novels that idealize the borough. Maybe I’ve grown sick of the countless stories about why others are leaving. But whatever the cause, my heart is irrevocably set on living in Manhattan. Until I’m 30, obviously. Then you can buy me a one-way plane ticket back to the Mid-West.

Follow Emily Siegel on Twitter. Illustration by Gabi Anderson.

*Your turn. When it comes to Manhattan versus Brooklyn versus whatever cool new neighborhood is pulling the cats out of your hood — what about you? To sort-of-paraphrase The Clash, will you stay or will you go?