New York Happens
New York happens when you least expect it. Sometimes people call those incredibly lucid seconds when you finally understand the city "New York moments." But I just call then "New York": the New York of my childhood dreams and adolescent escape fantasies.
I walked home from a party at a fancy club tonight where I met some amazing New York ladies who shared my affection for anything Shakira, and where there were probably more TV celebrities than I was able to recognize. I met the douchebag from that reality TV dating documentary "Hooking Up" -- the guy who was such a jerk that Gawker said was doomed to date the worst of Murray Hill. On the show, immediately after his date with this girl Amy ended, he said something like, "I banged a girl last night, and I'll bang another girl tomorrow night..." Well, let me tell you, apparently (and this is so incredibly unjust) he's doing just fine with women. He was wearing some kind of loud Hawaiian-type shirt, and as he introduced himself to me as "Dave," someone threw a pair of bronze-colored shiny thong panties at him. "Hang on," he told me as he went to find the undies' owner and then flirt with two blondes who ostensibly threw them. And I am proud to tell every self-respecting lady who's reading this that I promptly walked away to find my friends. In what parallel universe can acting like a total misogynist jerk on a low-budget reality show net you a bevy of rock-star-groupie-like women?
New York.
But that wasn't when New York happened for me tonight.
I was determined to hoof it home instead of grabbing a cab because I was wearing black pumps, not toting a pair of crutches, dammit. I hobbled slowly because three-inch heels don't let you power-walk, and I saw workers changing the displays at Ann Taylor. Not just clothes off of dummies, but wholesale repainting and retooling of the background walls that made them look better than any surface in my apartment. A few blocks down, garbage collectors were taking out the trash from the Sprint store, and people were still waiting in line at the Shake Shack. The Empire State Building poked out from among the trees of Madison Square Park and all the surrounding buildings, and somehow everything seemed fair. Level. I was content to inch my way home among the bums, the youngsters, the professionals who had stayed at work later than they planned. In five blocks, I'd reach the cube of space that I earned.
I live here.
Tonight, New York happened. And for now, despite my petty problems and the idiot misogyny that is David L. Ross, that is enough.
I walked home from a party at a fancy club tonight where I met some amazing New York ladies who shared my affection for anything Shakira, and where there were probably more TV celebrities than I was able to recognize. I met the douchebag from that reality TV dating documentary "Hooking Up" -- the guy who was such a jerk that Gawker said was doomed to date the worst of Murray Hill. On the show, immediately after his date with this girl Amy ended, he said something like, "I banged a girl last night, and I'll bang another girl tomorrow night..." Well, let me tell you, apparently (and this is so incredibly unjust) he's doing just fine with women. He was wearing some kind of loud Hawaiian-type shirt, and as he introduced himself to me as "Dave," someone threw a pair of bronze-colored shiny thong panties at him. "Hang on," he told me as he went to find the undies' owner and then flirt with two blondes who ostensibly threw them. And I am proud to tell every self-respecting lady who's reading this that I promptly walked away to find my friends. In what parallel universe can acting like a total misogynist jerk on a low-budget reality show net you a bevy of rock-star-groupie-like women?
New York.
But that wasn't when New York happened for me tonight.
I was determined to hoof it home instead of grabbing a cab because I was wearing black pumps, not toting a pair of crutches, dammit. I hobbled slowly because three-inch heels don't let you power-walk, and I saw workers changing the displays at Ann Taylor. Not just clothes off of dummies, but wholesale repainting and retooling of the background walls that made them look better than any surface in my apartment. A few blocks down, garbage collectors were taking out the trash from the Sprint store, and people were still waiting in line at the Shake Shack. The Empire State Building poked out from among the trees of Madison Square Park and all the surrounding buildings, and somehow everything seemed fair. Level. I was content to inch my way home among the bums, the youngsters, the professionals who had stayed at work later than they planned. In five blocks, I'd reach the cube of space that I earned.
I live here.
Tonight, New York happened. And for now, despite my petty problems and the idiot misogyny that is David L. Ross, that is enough.
posted by Jane at 11:59 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home