My Doorman

I’m pretty sure my doorman (the day guy, at least) does not approve of me.  Perhaps I shouldn’t care, as (luckily) he’s not the gossipy doorman.  That would be the night guy.  Unlike Carlton (remember him?),  I don’t just hear my doorman over an intercom, I pass him every time I enter and exit the building.   Well, yes, I keep odd hours.  Yes, I have visitors of both genders.  And yes, I think both of those things are within my rights.  I don’t know how “boring” everyone else must be for L. (my doorman) to give me such a disdainful look when I stop by to tell him I’ll be having company, please give them my keys as I’m going out for a while.  Or the even more disdainful look when I am walking into the building just as he arrives for work.  After all, for all he knows I was out for an early-morning walk!  And in fact, if I run out on the weekend to an early yoga class, I’ll be coming home not long after he starts work… and boy, do I get “the look” then!

It’s just one of the facts of living in a big city.  People who don’t live in big cities, especially if they don’t live in apartments, think living in a big city is anonymous.  They’re wrong.   I’m pretty sure my doormen (and probably, my neighbors) know more about me than I’m actually comfortable with.  (And yes, I know, I know, I shouldn’t end my sentence with “with”.  Get over it.)   I have surrendered any expectation of privacy by living in a doorman building in the first place – it’s my trade-off for the convenience, and yes, feeling of security I get because there is someone out there most hours of the day (and night).  And when the doorman isn’t there, the security guard is.  It’s a good feeling for a woman living alone in Manhattan.

So I put up with the (not so) hidden disapproval, and the frequent disdainful looks, and in a way,  I like it.  I take it as an affirmation that I live an interesting life!

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