I think I am still a little too doe-eyed to be an official New Yorker, or so the pleasant, yet barbed Uber driver seemed to imply. “Your husband will do fine, but you? You’re too nice.”

It was my official New York Welcome. Taylor Swift was dead wrong; New York does not wait for anyone.

I’ve been doing a little exploring along the streets today, realizing I need to work on my “careless face,” or even, for desperate measures and cat calls, my RBF.   But I still feel a little too unassuming to look assuming. It’s an interesting adjustment.

But the rude, brusque New York? I haven’t seen it just yet. I’m informed that it’s still here and I need to gird up my loins. But everyone looks pleasantly surprised when I hold the door for them for longer than a second. And our server at a little café around the corner wrote directions to the Target on a receipt for us. And my Uber driver called me nice in a backhanded, semi-offensive sort of way, but at least he said I was nice.

I can’t decide if I want New York to harden me or if I want to retain the Provo Sweetness. Is it alright to feel trepidation in a situation that you’ve thrown yourself so wholeheartedly behind? Am I allowed to reach back for the mountains and call my family three times a day? Is it normal to be overwhelmed by the claustrophobic spaciousness of it all?

I can’t put words to it yet, but I’m committed to try.

Here goes, New York. You have one year. Shape me.