Thus far I've successfully restrained myself from venturing toward a cliched and overwrought comparison of New York City versus the beltway. What's even the point? As far as I'm concerned, it's a waste of time. Like comparing champagne and apple juice. San Tropez to Pensacola. Ninjasonik with Nickleback. Missionary versus Insatiable Appetite. Okay, so you might drink apple juice in Pensacola on your way to see Nickleback and have an ounce of fun doing so; but it's no champagne in St. Tropez. It's no Grand St. in Daylight. Not. Even. Close.

Recently though I brushed on this conversation with my New York-bred boss who said in regards to all the city-transplants in the District, "Can't you just say 'That was a really great time!' and leave it there?" My eyes filled with tears. Was I going to start crying over this? Why the extreme reaction? Maybe I left too soon. Maybe I am meant for late nights and fashion frenzy. Maybe I like being poor all the time. Rather poor than perpetually uninspired...

And like that, the comparison I vowed not to take turned into a slippery slope of this versus that-ness.

But I stopped myself midway through because I don't want my boyfriend to have to listen to this A-gain.

Plus all of my ratty contrasting doesn't really matter if you are a Vineyard Vines-loving ladies man with mediocre culinary taste. Say you don't care much for art and design  (these people do in fact exist, I just don't really know them), then D.C. is tolerable. If you like a solid bar-scene and thrive in a relatively small environment, welcome home my friend. Happy hours are like fucking manna from heaven. Excuse moi. I just cannot describe it without using my judgmental judging tone, and I'm committed to 3% less judging, which started at 20% less judging but I realized I needed some non-judging successes under my belt. Baby steps people. Baby steps.

All in all, comparing and judging are getting me no where. Still, every single weekend I complain that D.C. taxis are the bane of my existence. That I cannot get a good bagel. That my essential self is screaming to dance. I cannot help but harp about how much better it is in New York City, and we are sick of hearing it. We are.

Maybe if I could actually preserve the memories of "a really good time" in a special place inside my heart, I could peacefully and fully move forward. After all, comparing is a bit like living in the past. So in addition to inhibiting my efforts to judge less, these nasty comparisons are toxic to the present moment.

In the end of the bloody day, I have two important things in Washington, D.C. that I never had in New York City: a job that I absolutely love and a sexy boyfriend who in addition to fulfilling my International Kissing Day desires actually makes me a more grounded, more patient, and more tolerant version of myself. So one could potentially argue that our nation's capital has been quite good for me.

And yet, it kills me to admit that. Absolutely kills me.

Emma Dinzebach

Photo via Get @ Me.