Monica Rozenfeld moves to Brooklyn with two roommates — a Catholic and an observant Jew — and they each seek understanding of what it means to be religious.
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This week I locked myself out of my apartment. I locked myself out and immediately went on survival mode. I slipped through a fence, climbed over a tree, up a fire escape only to find myself teased by the slightly open window behind unyielding locked bars. I rang the doorbells of the other two apartments consistently with no luck. I convinced the mailman to at least let me in the building. And then I sat on the stairs and thought, and thought hard.
To my luck, the girl who lives upstairs was home sick and let me in to make calls and emails. All I had in my possession were car keys — no license, no money, no phone. I was starving without a dollar in my pocket. Instead of eating leftovers, I roamed around town, waiting for my roommate Farrah to return without being able to reach her if and when she did.
I felt homeless. I wasn’t scared because I knew, eventually, I would return to my cozy apartment, back on my mac finishing up my school work. But for those few hours that I didn’t have anything but a friendly neighbor and a good man in my life who left work to feed me, did I finally feel how scary it can be to have no where to go with nothing to my name. This event did come at a really great time after my bitching about not having enough, not being grateful enough, etc. etc.
Not to be dramatic, I was taken care of. And I got in by the end of the day. Not everyone is so lucky. I now have a war wound (hole on my jeans) I am proud of. It reminds me that I am pretty damn lucky. And it’s motivating me to sell my car so I don’t risk getting locked out again.