The Methodist Church in my neighborhood had their annual book sale this weekend, and I managed to score four books for six bucks! (Sweet!) I like going because it's a bunch of Park Slope folks getting rid of their old, hip, deep-thought-filled books, so there are always a few that grab me right away.
This year, however, I think Jesus might have been a little let down by the quality of the merchandise. Because I managed to walk out of a house of worship toting The Best Erotica of 1994.
Yeah, I bought smut at the church (for cheap!).
I called my parents to tell them of my great find, except they couldn't understand what I was saying.
"Do you think Jesus would mind that I bought erotica at the church?" I asked.
"You bought what?" they said in unison over speakerphone.
"Erotica," I said, shielding my mouth while heading to the grocery store.
"What?"
"EROTICA," I said.
"WHAT?"
"Do I have to shout it to you guys while I'm on the sidewalk?? EEEE-RAAAH-TIIII-CAHHHH!"
"Oh!" And then my parents fell into paroxysms of laughter that would make the angels weep.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
who doesn't love steroids??
I am finally, FINALLY, after six whole weeks of dreck, starting to feel better. I've had a brick of snot the size of Tennessee shoved into my brain since about Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and yesterday I went to an otolarnygologist (say that three times fast) after two visits to (and two rounds of failed antibiotics from) my regular doctor.
I sat in the chair and she stuck a rubber hose up my nose, while chemicals flowed freely into my brain.
"Um, what was that?"
"A combination of Afrin and lidocaine."
"Oh. Ok."
(pause)
"Um, why'd you stick it up my nose?"
"So you won't feel it when I use the camera."
(GAH!)
Fifteen minutes later, she shoved a teeny-tiny camera up my nose and down my throat. Awesome.
(Luckily, five minutes after that, she gave me hardcore antibiotics, STEROIDS and a fancy schmancy nasal spray. Move over, saline!)
Today the fog is lifting and I can see the lights of the planes landing at LaGuardia. (They've been known to pass for stars in these parts.)
So now that I'm all hopped up on steroids, I'm thinking of taking up baseball. And changing my name to K-Rod!
(Actually, it's funny. I told the PT aide that I was on steroids and she asked what kind. I said, "I don't know, my cousin from the Dominican Republic came up and just shot them into my butt. I didn't ask what they were." She didn't get it.)
All of this leads me to what I meant to write tonight:
When you have a schnoz full of Afrin and lidocaine, the whole inside of your face gets numb, you get a little dizzy, and your top teeth feel like they're going to fall out. And, sadly, snot can be running down your face, and you won't know it until it reaches your lip.
Or so I've heard.
I sat in the chair and she stuck a rubber hose up my nose, while chemicals flowed freely into my brain.
"Um, what was that?"
"A combination of Afrin and lidocaine."
"Oh. Ok."
(pause)
"Um, why'd you stick it up my nose?"
"So you won't feel it when I use the camera."
(GAH!)
Fifteen minutes later, she shoved a teeny-tiny camera up my nose and down my throat. Awesome.
(Luckily, five minutes after that, she gave me hardcore antibiotics, STEROIDS and a fancy schmancy nasal spray. Move over, saline!)
Today the fog is lifting and I can see the lights of the planes landing at LaGuardia. (They've been known to pass for stars in these parts.)
So now that I'm all hopped up on steroids, I'm thinking of taking up baseball. And changing my name to K-Rod!
(Actually, it's funny. I told the PT aide that I was on steroids and she asked what kind. I said, "I don't know, my cousin from the Dominican Republic came up and just shot them into my butt. I didn't ask what they were." She didn't get it.)
All of this leads me to what I meant to write tonight:
When you have a schnoz full of Afrin and lidocaine, the whole inside of your face gets numb, you get a little dizzy, and your top teeth feel like they're going to fall out. And, sadly, snot can be running down your face, and you won't know it until it reaches your lip.
Or so I've heard.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
consider a cucumber cheerleader
It seems I've been dating for a hundred years now. And I had dinner with a friend last night who made the point that when one bad date follows another (or a good date never follows up), it's hard to stay positive about being single and continuing to meet people.
I took this to heart, and I offer all my single readers this advice:
Consider a Cucumber Cheerleader.
One of the opportunities dating affords us is the chance to change. To look at our behavior, identify habits and trends that aren't working for us -- in an arena where the stakes can be considerably high (depending on how much you want a partner) -- and make active choices to change those habits and trends. (Sounds simple, at least.)
For example, I tend to rush things. (Just ask the last six guys I was serious with.) (Well, no ask the last three. The previous three liked to rush things, too.) I have a good date and want to hear from the guy the next day. If I don't hear from him in two days, I start to panic. Three days and it's a coronary. Four days and I've burnt the coaster he gave me that ended up in my bag as a memento from a good date. Five days and I've voted him off the island of my love, never to return. So when he calls me six days later, it's too late. He's already ruined everything.
This seriously doesn't work for me. It bends me out of shape and makes me angry. It makes me feel desperate and unlovable. And while I believe that after a good date, follow up will happen within one to four days, just because I haven't heard from a guy in six days doesn't mean he won't call, or that if he does call, I can't enjoy his company again. All it means is that he hasn't called. I don't know why, I don't know if he will, I don't know anything.
Prior to working with my Cucumber Cheerleader (which I'll get to in a second), at this point, I used to call him. Feeling antsy, feeling like I wanted Mr. Gooddate to be my boyfriend, I'd call him and follow up myself. Sometimes he'd respond, and sometimes I wouldn't hear from him. And while equality between the sexes in terms of phone contact is fine, I (personally) was ignoring the fact that he hadn't demonstrated behavior that I had clearly identified as desirable in my next boyfriend.
I was sabotaging myself by being willing to ignore behavior I found uncomfortable, just because one date felt good.
During all this time, I was always calling my sister. "Just stay calm," she'd say. "Be a cucumber. Cool. Totally cool." I didn't listen to her at first, thinking that her way was "following the rules" and "game playing" but what I learned over time was that she was totally right. That if I could turn down my anxiety and desperation and become more like a chilly little cuke, I could see behavior more clearly. Both good and bad behavior.
After working with my Cucumber Cheerleader (who would call me on the weekends after dates and say "were you cool? were you a good cucumber?") I started to be more patient. I remember I was dating a guy for a few months who never told me that he cared about me. And I started to get sick of it, but because of all my Produce Practice, I waited before I said anything. And the day I wanted to bring it up but didn't, he called me to tell me how much he cared about me and how happy he was that he'd met me -- things he wouldn't have said if I had confronted him about it.
Another time, I met a guy and had what I thought was a great evening together, and he completely disappeared, never to be heard from again. I knew I had finally achieved Real Live Cucumber status when I never called him or contacted him at all. I wanted to, don't get me wrong, but because of my Cheerleader, I was now trained to focus on my worth, and not to waste my energy on people who didn't share the same opinion of it.
I'm truly blessed to share so many genes with my Cheerleader. My sister has helped me to practice being patient and staying calm. She's encouraged me to focus on things outside of dating to make me naturally more cucumberish. She's given me support when I've needed it the most. And without her, I'd still be behaving desperately. And not getting what I want.
I still believe that the right man for me will find me, have a great date with me, and follow up in four days. But until he does (or if he doesn't), I'm working to improve myself so that I bring the best package to the table.
It's not easy, but it's worth it. And luckily, I'm not doing it alone.
I took this to heart, and I offer all my single readers this advice:
Consider a Cucumber Cheerleader.
One of the opportunities dating affords us is the chance to change. To look at our behavior, identify habits and trends that aren't working for us -- in an arena where the stakes can be considerably high (depending on how much you want a partner) -- and make active choices to change those habits and trends. (Sounds simple, at least.)
For example, I tend to rush things. (Just ask the last six guys I was serious with.) (Well, no ask the last three. The previous three liked to rush things, too.) I have a good date and want to hear from the guy the next day. If I don't hear from him in two days, I start to panic. Three days and it's a coronary. Four days and I've burnt the coaster he gave me that ended up in my bag as a memento from a good date. Five days and I've voted him off the island of my love, never to return. So when he calls me six days later, it's too late. He's already ruined everything.
This seriously doesn't work for me. It bends me out of shape and makes me angry. It makes me feel desperate and unlovable. And while I believe that after a good date, follow up will happen within one to four days, just because I haven't heard from a guy in six days doesn't mean he won't call, or that if he does call, I can't enjoy his company again. All it means is that he hasn't called. I don't know why, I don't know if he will, I don't know anything.
Prior to working with my Cucumber Cheerleader (which I'll get to in a second), at this point, I used to call him. Feeling antsy, feeling like I wanted Mr. Gooddate to be my boyfriend, I'd call him and follow up myself. Sometimes he'd respond, and sometimes I wouldn't hear from him. And while equality between the sexes in terms of phone contact is fine, I (personally) was ignoring the fact that he hadn't demonstrated behavior that I had clearly identified as desirable in my next boyfriend.
I was sabotaging myself by being willing to ignore behavior I found uncomfortable, just because one date felt good.
During all this time, I was always calling my sister. "Just stay calm," she'd say. "Be a cucumber. Cool. Totally cool." I didn't listen to her at first, thinking that her way was "following the rules" and "game playing" but what I learned over time was that she was totally right. That if I could turn down my anxiety and desperation and become more like a chilly little cuke, I could see behavior more clearly. Both good and bad behavior.
After working with my Cucumber Cheerleader (who would call me on the weekends after dates and say "were you cool? were you a good cucumber?") I started to be more patient. I remember I was dating a guy for a few months who never told me that he cared about me. And I started to get sick of it, but because of all my Produce Practice, I waited before I said anything. And the day I wanted to bring it up but didn't, he called me to tell me how much he cared about me and how happy he was that he'd met me -- things he wouldn't have said if I had confronted him about it.
Another time, I met a guy and had what I thought was a great evening together, and he completely disappeared, never to be heard from again. I knew I had finally achieved Real Live Cucumber status when I never called him or contacted him at all. I wanted to, don't get me wrong, but because of my Cheerleader, I was now trained to focus on my worth, and not to waste my energy on people who didn't share the same opinion of it.
I'm truly blessed to share so many genes with my Cheerleader. My sister has helped me to practice being patient and staying calm. She's encouraged me to focus on things outside of dating to make me naturally more cucumberish. She's given me support when I've needed it the most. And without her, I'd still be behaving desperately. And not getting what I want.
I still believe that the right man for me will find me, have a great date with me, and follow up in four days. But until he does (or if he doesn't), I'm working to improve myself so that I bring the best package to the table.
It's not easy, but it's worth it. And luckily, I'm not doing it alone.
Monday, February 16, 2009
ends and odds
1. I was doing my laundry at my friends' house this weekend when their kid, Max, who was hyped up on Sheer Attention Potential (both of his parents, his grandma, and I were all there to dote on him) followed me down to the basement.
"What's that?" he asked when I pulled the lint trap from the dryer.
"Lint."
"Lint? LINT!?!?"
And then he bounded away.
2. I was out this weekend when I heard three different sets of parents call to their children.
"Gatsby, no!"
"Yeats, come over here!"
"Karma, sweetie, time to go."
I'll give you three guesses as to where I was. (Hint: The answer rhymes with Ark Snope Slayground.)
3. There's apparently a perfume out there that you can bathe in that makes you smell like a big, fat, walking dryer sheet. I only know this because the woman sitting painfully close to me at a meeting on Friday had bathed in it. Eau de Bounce, anyone?
4. I watched Midnight Run recently and the screenwriters on that film have invented a new technique for dealing with sticky situations: when Robert DeNiro's character gets into a tight spot, he simply punches somebody's lights out. Doesn't matter if you're in a car, in an alleyway, flying an airplane... one good sock to the head and you're out!
5. On the train the other day, a very large, intimidating-looking black man got on and sat down next to me. I was thinking about feeling small and intimidated, but then this teeny tiny voice squeaked out of him, "Hello? Is it me you're looking for? I can see it in your eyes, I can see it in your smile, you're all I've ever wanted and my arms are open wide..."
I think he was actually singing it to me, but I pretended that I didn't even hear him. Because really, am I going to be wooed by the cheesiest song in all of history? I don't care if you are large and intimidating. You're singing LIONEL RICHIE for crying out loud!
6. I had a dream the other night that I was dating my physical therapist (the one who used to yell at me but now treats me like a princess), and in my dream, we sat down to dinner with his parents and his twenty brothers and sisters. It cost $5,000. And then I woke up.
"What's that?" he asked when I pulled the lint trap from the dryer.
"Lint."
"Lint? LINT!?!?"
And then he bounded away.
2. I was out this weekend when I heard three different sets of parents call to their children.
"Gatsby, no!"
"Yeats, come over here!"
"Karma, sweetie, time to go."
I'll give you three guesses as to where I was. (Hint: The answer rhymes with Ark Snope Slayground.)
3. There's apparently a perfume out there that you can bathe in that makes you smell like a big, fat, walking dryer sheet. I only know this because the woman sitting painfully close to me at a meeting on Friday had bathed in it. Eau de Bounce, anyone?
4. I watched Midnight Run recently and the screenwriters on that film have invented a new technique for dealing with sticky situations: when Robert DeNiro's character gets into a tight spot, he simply punches somebody's lights out. Doesn't matter if you're in a car, in an alleyway, flying an airplane... one good sock to the head and you're out!
5. On the train the other day, a very large, intimidating-looking black man got on and sat down next to me. I was thinking about feeling small and intimidated, but then this teeny tiny voice squeaked out of him, "Hello? Is it me you're looking for? I can see it in your eyes, I can see it in your smile, you're all I've ever wanted and my arms are open wide..."
I think he was actually singing it to me, but I pretended that I didn't even hear him. Because really, am I going to be wooed by the cheesiest song in all of history? I don't care if you are large and intimidating. You're singing LIONEL RICHIE for crying out loud!
6. I had a dream the other night that I was dating my physical therapist (the one who used to yell at me but now treats me like a princess), and in my dream, we sat down to dinner with his parents and his twenty brothers and sisters. It cost $5,000. And then I woke up.
ok, universe, you have my attention
Weird Thing One (that probably won't seem weird until you get more Weird Things)
Friday night I went to a Yale event for Yalies of All Ages. It was a fairly posh affair, with an open bar and tasty catering. Since I'm on antibiotics for the second round of plague that I'm suffering from this winter, I got there early (so I could go home early) and I didn't drink at all.
After several minutes of interesting (if not somewhat forced) conversation with Phil, class of 1820, I wandered off to get more seltzer. When I came back, I discovered a couple in the corner of the room, and one of them looked familiar.
"Do I know you?" I ventured.
"Maybe. You look really familiar."
"I'm Kate," I said and shook their hands. (They were Matt and Lauren.) Matt and I didn't overlap at college at all (and he was the one that looked familiar) but Lauren and I both graduated in 1998. Except she went to Harvard.
Dead end.
We were joined by a former member of my comedy group, who also knew Matt, and the pieces instantly fell into place. Matt and I realized that we had met at the New Year's Day party thrown by an ex-boyfriend of mine, who also happened to have been in that comedy group.
We all swapped info and agreed to keep in touch, as funny smartypantses are sometimes hard to find.
(See? Not very weird yet. Stay tuned.)
Weird Thing Two
Five or six years ago, I was in a relationship with the ex-boyfriend who used to throw New Year's Day parties. Things weren't working out at all, and I was feeling more and more pressure to end the relationship. Unfortunately, the day I picked as The Day I Could Do It No Longer happened to be Valentine's Day. So I dumped my boyfriend on Valentine's Day at the Tea Lounge in Brooklyn.
It wasn't pretty.
Saturday, as you all know, was Valentine's Day, and, being single, I had no plans, so I ended up scheduling an alumni interview for an applicant to Yale. We agreed to meet at... the Tea Lounge. I'd like to say that going back there on Valentine's Day five (or six) years later was spooky or loaded or whatever, but really, it wasn't. I just noted it and interviewed a great kid.
Weird Thing Three
On the way home from the Tea Lounge that very night, I ran into said ex-boyfriend's old roommate. We chatted about him and how the economy's affected him, and I wanted to ask about my ex-boyfriend, but we parted on such awful terms and I'm afraid that he hates me so much that I feel like it's not even my place to ask after him. So I didn't.
But that actually was weird.
Weird Thing Four (oh yes, there's more)
On the way home from the grocery store the next day, I ran into said ex-boyfriend's OTHER old roommate. I was so weirded out I didn't even stop and chat with her.
So Ex-Boyfriend (and you know who you are), if you're out there, I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to do that to you, and I hope you're well.
Friday night I went to a Yale event for Yalies of All Ages. It was a fairly posh affair, with an open bar and tasty catering. Since I'm on antibiotics for the second round of plague that I'm suffering from this winter, I got there early (so I could go home early) and I didn't drink at all.
After several minutes of interesting (if not somewhat forced) conversation with Phil, class of 1820, I wandered off to get more seltzer. When I came back, I discovered a couple in the corner of the room, and one of them looked familiar.
"Do I know you?" I ventured.
"Maybe. You look really familiar."
"I'm Kate," I said and shook their hands. (They were Matt and Lauren.) Matt and I didn't overlap at college at all (and he was the one that looked familiar) but Lauren and I both graduated in 1998. Except she went to Harvard.
Dead end.
We were joined by a former member of my comedy group, who also knew Matt, and the pieces instantly fell into place. Matt and I realized that we had met at the New Year's Day party thrown by an ex-boyfriend of mine, who also happened to have been in that comedy group.
We all swapped info and agreed to keep in touch, as funny smartypantses are sometimes hard to find.
(See? Not very weird yet. Stay tuned.)
Weird Thing Two
Five or six years ago, I was in a relationship with the ex-boyfriend who used to throw New Year's Day parties. Things weren't working out at all, and I was feeling more and more pressure to end the relationship. Unfortunately, the day I picked as The Day I Could Do It No Longer happened to be Valentine's Day. So I dumped my boyfriend on Valentine's Day at the Tea Lounge in Brooklyn.
It wasn't pretty.
Saturday, as you all know, was Valentine's Day, and, being single, I had no plans, so I ended up scheduling an alumni interview for an applicant to Yale. We agreed to meet at... the Tea Lounge. I'd like to say that going back there on Valentine's Day five (or six) years later was spooky or loaded or whatever, but really, it wasn't. I just noted it and interviewed a great kid.
Weird Thing Three
On the way home from the Tea Lounge that very night, I ran into said ex-boyfriend's old roommate. We chatted about him and how the economy's affected him, and I wanted to ask about my ex-boyfriend, but we parted on such awful terms and I'm afraid that he hates me so much that I feel like it's not even my place to ask after him. So I didn't.
But that actually was weird.
Weird Thing Four (oh yes, there's more)
On the way home from the grocery store the next day, I ran into said ex-boyfriend's OTHER old roommate. I was so weirded out I didn't even stop and chat with her.
So Ex-Boyfriend (and you know who you are), if you're out there, I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to do that to you, and I hope you're well.
Monday, February 9, 2009
greetings from dumpyville
So I've been a little down in the dumps lately. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's my job, maybe it's [insert variety of possibilities here].
Regardless, a few things have managed to make me smile lately.
1. The surety of my PT aide.
She knows. Period. No questions, no gray areas. It's black or white and she'll tell you which one it is. And that's the one it will be. (At least for the 35 minutes you're working with her, anyway.) And if you don't like it? Well, those 8 pounds on your gimpy knee might just turn into twelve.
(No, I'm kidding about that part. She's great. I envy her clarity. I wish I could see things so simply and easily. And also believe that they are, in fact, simple and easy.)
2. Car hats.
When it snows, cars that have been parked on the street get these nice four inch hats on their roofs. (rooves?) My favorite is when they blow off in feathery little streams or massive polar ice chunks.
3. Candid emails.
On a dating website, I received an email from a guy saying "I read your profile, or at least the first three sections of it, and I think we'd really get along."
My whole profile is five sections long, and while I decided not to write him back, I was sorely tempted to write only 3/5 of a message.
4. Spanish emails.
On the same dating website, I list that my Spanish is ok, so I got a message from a guy telling me that he sees love and sincerity in my pictures and that he would love to win my heart if I would let him. In Spanish. Luckily, "no" is the same in both languages.
5. Missed opportunities.
I had a date with a guy who was fun and with whom I would have gone out again if he hadn't disappeared into the great hole that is internet dating. We joked the whole time on our date in the park that I was luring him into the woods to kill him. He argued that I should kill him back at my house in the bathtub, where it was warmer and I could linger over the task longer but I said that would take too much clean up (I mean, have you seen my bathroom lately?) The woods would be cleaner, easier, and yes, colder, but better in the long run.
The date ended (sans murder) and we exchanged half-hearted emails for a week or so and then he disappeared. Which is really too bad, because I'd like to send him an email saying "See? I should have killed you when I had the chance!"
It occurs to me that this was the date I was telling the PT aide about...
Regardless, a few things have managed to make me smile lately.
1. The surety of my PT aide.
She knows. Period. No questions, no gray areas. It's black or white and she'll tell you which one it is. And that's the one it will be. (At least for the 35 minutes you're working with her, anyway.) And if you don't like it? Well, those 8 pounds on your gimpy knee might just turn into twelve.
(No, I'm kidding about that part. She's great. I envy her clarity. I wish I could see things so simply and easily. And also believe that they are, in fact, simple and easy.)
2. Car hats.
When it snows, cars that have been parked on the street get these nice four inch hats on their roofs. (rooves?) My favorite is when they blow off in feathery little streams or massive polar ice chunks.
3. Candid emails.
On a dating website, I received an email from a guy saying "I read your profile, or at least the first three sections of it, and I think we'd really get along."
My whole profile is five sections long, and while I decided not to write him back, I was sorely tempted to write only 3/5 of a message.
4. Spanish emails.
On the same dating website, I list that my Spanish is ok, so I got a message from a guy telling me that he sees love and sincerity in my pictures and that he would love to win my heart if I would let him. In Spanish. Luckily, "no" is the same in both languages.
5. Missed opportunities.
I had a date with a guy who was fun and with whom I would have gone out again if he hadn't disappeared into the great hole that is internet dating. We joked the whole time on our date in the park that I was luring him into the woods to kill him. He argued that I should kill him back at my house in the bathtub, where it was warmer and I could linger over the task longer but I said that would take too much clean up (I mean, have you seen my bathroom lately?) The woods would be cleaner, easier, and yes, colder, but better in the long run.
The date ended (sans murder) and we exchanged half-hearted emails for a week or so and then he disappeared. Which is really too bad, because I'd like to send him an email saying "See? I should have killed you when I had the chance!"
It occurs to me that this was the date I was telling the PT aide about...
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
bury my pride at wounded knee
The girl was out of the house early enough this morning to make her regular M train -- the one she hasn't made in a week because her new hairdo takes seven extra minutes to do -- except that she didn't even need the M train today. She had a conference to go to, where they'd tell her all about products that she can't afford to buy and doesn't have the authority to institute, even if she could buy them. And for the conference, any train would do.
It was snowing again, and, while the ever-affable newsman wasn't predicting it would stick, the girl was in her brand-new-thank-you-mom Christmas boots and decidedly not in her new woolen sailor pants recently purchased at H&M. (They'd get icky around the cuffs in the snow.)
Headed towards the subway at a decent clip, the girl was anticipating a nasty commute home that night, handing out Good Neighbor/Bad Neighbor awards in her head, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a patch of black ice just small enough to be invisible (and yet big enough to wreak serious havoc) slid itself blob-like under her boot. Her brand-new-thank-you-mom Christmas boot that was supposed to be good for expressly this kind of thing.
But oh, how it wasn't.
The girl went sprawling on the sidewalk, knees-first. (Which, if you can imagine, is just about the most unpleasant way to sprawl.) The butts of her hands landed next, and, if that weren't enough damage to do to a girl on her way to work, velocity (and the fact that she lives on a Slope) pushed her forward until her cheek actually kissed the ground.
A moment of silence, and utter devastation.
"Are you ok?" asked the sweet middleschooler who had no idea what to do with this Old Lady Wiping Out In Front of Her.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," said the girl, thinking that she was, in fact, fine.
But when she stood up and the pain shot through her knees, it took her breath away. "I'm fine," she added as best she could, and the sweet middleschooler ambled off.
Her pants were covered with dirty, salty, sidewalky crap, her cheek had similar schmutz on it, and all she wanted was to go home and not try this all over again. To curl up in bed and hide from the day. But alas, she had the conference.
So she trooped off to the subway, got on the M train (without an ounce of satisfaction or jubilation at actually making it) and checked out her knees.
They were still there. Greenish, swollen and missing a layer of skin, but still there and still functional.
The girl tried hard to count her blessings and hold back her tears. After all, she had the conference to go to.
It was snowing again, and, while the ever-affable newsman wasn't predicting it would stick, the girl was in her brand-new-thank-you-mom Christmas boots and decidedly not in her new woolen sailor pants recently purchased at H&M. (They'd get icky around the cuffs in the snow.)
Headed towards the subway at a decent clip, the girl was anticipating a nasty commute home that night, handing out Good Neighbor/Bad Neighbor awards in her head, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a patch of black ice just small enough to be invisible (and yet big enough to wreak serious havoc) slid itself blob-like under her boot. Her brand-new-thank-you-mom Christmas boot that was supposed to be good for expressly this kind of thing.
But oh, how it wasn't.
The girl went sprawling on the sidewalk, knees-first. (Which, if you can imagine, is just about the most unpleasant way to sprawl.) The butts of her hands landed next, and, if that weren't enough damage to do to a girl on her way to work, velocity (and the fact that she lives on a Slope) pushed her forward until her cheek actually kissed the ground.
A moment of silence, and utter devastation.
"Are you ok?" asked the sweet middleschooler who had no idea what to do with this Old Lady Wiping Out In Front of Her.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," said the girl, thinking that she was, in fact, fine.
But when she stood up and the pain shot through her knees, it took her breath away. "I'm fine," she added as best she could, and the sweet middleschooler ambled off.
Her pants were covered with dirty, salty, sidewalky crap, her cheek had similar schmutz on it, and all she wanted was to go home and not try this all over again. To curl up in bed and hide from the day. But alas, she had the conference.
So she trooped off to the subway, got on the M train (without an ounce of satisfaction or jubilation at actually making it) and checked out her knees.
They were still there. Greenish, swollen and missing a layer of skin, but still there and still functional.
The girl tried hard to count her blessings and hold back her tears. After all, she had the conference to go to.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
