The Met Bathrooms

Today I really needed to pee, so I walked into The Met. That is crazy for my brain to assimilate, I live in a city where it is easier to access the Metropolitan Museum of Art, than a public bathroom.

Granted, I did have an assignment that involved visiting The Met, but I originally planned to just get the ticket (free for all New York City residents), send a proof picture, and head back to school. The point still stands, I can take 20 minutes  in between my classes to pee in The Met bathroom, and head back in to take a final exam, without any trouble. 

It took me more time to find the bathroom—and the exit—once I was inside the museum, than taking the uptown 6 train from 51st to 77th street.

I love going to The Met alone, I love being able to fast-walk through the galleries, without having to stop and read every single piece. Because, “I live in New York, I can come back any time—” even though I rarely do.

Walking through The Met not to admire art, but to admire people admiring art. To hear those, intellectual wannabe, hushes everyone subconsciously make when they walk in—as if it were prohibited to speak up while in a museum. (It is not a public library). To feel the cautious but fierce vibrations of hundreds of boots stomping through the exhibition. To smell that clean, polarized air that comes out of fine art. Just so I can use the public bathroom, and head out after only ten minutes. 

In reality, I wish I was the girl I promised my 19-year-old self  I would be when I moved to New York; the one that visits new museum monthly, has solo-dates at The Met, and does homework at the MoMA; the one who visits jazz bars, and sits in Washington Square Park listening to street performers while smoking a cigarette; the one that attends every pop-up, and walks the Brooklyn Bridge at four in the morning; but living in New York, the city takes a hold of you, so I am the girl who uses The Met as a public bathroom.