Duh.

I know. I know. This is not the downfall of journalism, but the toilet-reading, the doom-scrolling, and the people-watching that we all indulge in from time to time. Surfing under the recent heat waves, I squint my eyes, and all of a sudden the city becomes a sea of hot mess. The variety of its characters are bobbing their heads up and down in the waves—some struggling for a breath of air, some pedaling forward with an annoying splash on others, some simply chilling in their giant donut-shaped pool rings… How on earth did we all stay afloat? 

ARMS.

Holy shit we have hot arms. Strong arms. Impeccable arms.

Arms that save us from drowning.

There. I cracked the code. 

When did the muscles suddenly grow out? Where were they from? We didn’t wake up looking like this. Was it the 7am HIIT classes, $28 egg white scrambles, and color-coded Lululemon sets? Or was it something more than gentrified diet plans, socialized body images, and fitness goals for every reformed overachieving child?

I drag my overfilled tote bag through the subway sauna, carrying my laptop, boxing gloves, scripts, a giant water bottle, change of clothes, lunch box, period pads, and way too many keys, all because of the fear of wearing a backpack and looking like a tourist and getting robbed and most importantly looking stupid. My undeniable shoulder bruise and irritable attitude serve as a strong reminder of:

BICEPS.

In the sleeveless season, what a brilliant discovery I just made.

It’s true. Everyone in New York has biceps. Biceps of different shapes and forms, colors and personalities, origins and destinations. 

Here’s a list of biceps I have encountered this summer:

• Bartenders. Baristas. Boba tea masters.
• Moms, a stroller in one hand, a wiggly baby in another, climbing up the moist subway steps.
• Polo players on the Sheep Meadow.
• The chili mango ladies who cut a whole universe of fruit with what looks like a manicure knife.
• The interns. Period.
• The friend who holds your hair back when you throw up at a half-blackened wall with Keith Haring graffiti on it.
• The dog walkers pulling leashes of golden retrievers.
• That one saxophonist whose fingers made you reevaluate your current date.
• The power gays in Washington Square Park on pride weekend, carrying on their shoulders rainbow flags, fashion taste, and the girl with a cute mullet.
• The campaigners. The dreamers in need of desperate cash. 
• Mr. Ahmed, who pushes his breakfast cart uphill before dawn and serves the strongest iced coffee mankind has ever known. I know his name from Venmo.
• The shoppers. The consumers. The sample sale liners.
• The nail artist who pretends that she does not speak English while squeezing your feet harder upon hearing your crazy phone conversations.
• The pizza shovelers. The bagel boilers.
• Whoever keeps you fed.
• Artists. Take that as you may. 
• Your guy. Also take that as you may.
• Your person. Take a good look at your person next time. Their arms. Their biceps. Their muscles, and the memories stored within.

But New York is not just your world, right? 

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New York is filled with those who labor. Those who bring their coin pouch in their fanny pack. Those who sell all that they have or about to have. Those who have panic attacks before the alarm. Those who curse the weather. Those who try to stay awake. Those who try to stay alive. 

Those who type out hey to their online crush. Those who report to Overheard New York or repost Subway Hands. Those who make up stories. Those who make up.  Those who remove their make-up after the bar. Those who make out in the after hours. Those who are hopelessly not in love. Those who go home and cry about it. Those who hold on to each other tight. Those who got a tight grip. Those who grasp on a sign. 

Those who hide their language-learning textbook from the rain. Those who push their Facebook Marketplace sofa on the L train. Those who migrated, and then transplanted. Those who make promises. Those who don’t pray, but have faith.

It’s not just your world. Is it not? 

The shared joy we have, the shared love we celebrate, the shared trauma we cherish, the shared scream we muffle under a thick blanket of blood and sweat and tears, the shared poetry, dances, songs, epics, and eras—all held up high by our biceps. I have no idea how.

Everyone in New York has biceps ≠ Every New Yorker has biceps.

And now you do too.