Wednesday, February 19, 2014

An Open Letter to New York City in February

Dear NYC,

When I arrived at Penn Station on a misty Thursday evening last week, I was very excited to see you. It's been too long, I thought to myself, breathing in the soothingly familiar smells of soft pretzels and human urine. I'm home. I didn't even care that you were covered in a post-Pax layer of gray Slurpee. I knew you would still provide the perfect setting for celebrating commodified romantic gestures and the exodus of some famous Caucasian males from their respective mothers' oh-so-patriotic wombs. After all, Valentine's Day and Presidents' Day happen to be my most treasured holidays after Christmas, Easter, Halloween, the Ides of March, and National Pecan Day, so this weekend was important to me on a personal and emotional level that is difficult to articulate without the proper eye contact.

Fortunately, you met my expectations with gusto on Friday morning. I awakened circa noon and embraced the lifestyle. It was grand. I went to SoulCycle at 4:30 p.m. and felt zero shames upon absconding with half a pack of their free Orbit gum supply. Orbit is my favorite. Also I had just moved my legs in tiny circles for 45 minutes and only looked at myself in the mirror like two or three times max. Together, we were invincible.

On Saturday I woke up feeling a little under the weather. Don't worry, you whispered in a non-sketchy voice, the city of your birth will provide solace and healing via easily accessible yet decidedly outlandish beverages. You are basically Carrie Bradshaw with slightly more attractive hands. That is the only difference. Trustingly, I made my way to the neighborhood Juice Press installment where I purchased the "rehab shot": a tonsil-burning concoction of ginger juice, lemon, and cayenne pepper. I chased it with coconut milk and promptly felt like a d-bag. But also a goddess of health and fertile splendor. NYC, you totally get me. Let's keep this story a secret between us and the internet.

Relishing in the perfection of the last 48 hours, I planned to take full advantage of our last moments together on Sunday. That afternoon, I lobbed a rhetorical question in your direction: Yo, city, you know what would make today super magical? AN OUTFIT POST FOR MY BLOG. UH DUH. I'll provide the clothes, you provide the backdrop.

I excitedly donned the ensemble that had been ruminating in my brain for weeks: beloved pinstriped Stella McCartney sweater (I've stalked this particular item since its runway birth, so purchasing it on sale over New Years was particularly satisfying), Uniqlo jeans a.k.a. the only denim I ever willingly wear, my mom's vintage Hermes silk scarf (best efforts 2 look semi-French), an Intermix coat with the most bomb ass hood/cowl neck there ever was, and new Jimmy Choo loafers (ombre footwear for those too cowardly to attempt the hairstyle).

Naturally, I already had the blog content planned: I would make jokes about the color scheme of my outfit and Fifty Shades of Gray, and we would laugh together like the old pals we are. Hahahahah. That was a demo.

But alas, it was not to be. Fate stepped in. Or rather, dear NYC, you stepped back. And watched, cruelly, as a series of most unfortunate events unfolded....

Wearing the blog lewk, I exited my apartment building and began traversing the street toward the sunnier and thus more photography-friendly side of the block. I walked gingerly, moving slowly and avoiding the millions of gaping slush puddles that lurked every few feet. When I was almost halfway across Park Avenue, it occurred to me that I would not make it to the other side before the light changed at my current cautionary pace. Playing it safe (new shoes, ya know?), I paused on the slab of sidewalk in the middle of the street and decided to wait it out. I stood there, admiring my surroundings. Despite the gray-tinged snow banks and dripping sidewalks, you still managed to look good, New York.

Then, out of my peripheral vision, I saw it coming: a taxi cab, one of your famed yellow ambassadors, racing along Park Avenue at breakneck speed. My eyes swiveled to the enormous puddle of melting sludge about a yard from where I was standing. It was close. Too close. And before I could make a mad dash in the other direction--

SPLOOSHHHHH! In what seemed like slow motion, the taxi careened into the puddle, spraying a wall of icy gray water All. Over. My. Body. Let me take a moment to emphasize that this was not a tiny, inconsequential, foot-dusting spray. No, pals. This was a tsunami. I was hunched over, dazed, taking it all in. (And I mean this literally because salty street Slurpee was all over my face and in my mouth. Don't worry! I'll post signups for make-outs shortly.) Given that I was 72% wet, new loafers included, I made the game time decision to sprint back to my apartment sans blog photographs.

I briefly contemplated how many different species of city street bacteria were probably residing on my skin, hair, and clothing at the moment, but it was too horrifying to even consider. NYC, you had betrayed me. Not cool, bro. Not cool. (u a man or a woman btw? JK I REALLY DON'T CARE.) My body was a crime scene. What did I ever do to you?

I was too psychologically scarred to venture outside once again. But, much like our nation's post office, I persevere despite weather conditions. I did damage control on my outfit, dried myself off as best I could with paper towels, and conducted the blog photo shoot indoors. 

New York City, I can't stay mad forever. But at the very least you should buy me another rehab shot.

Yours always,


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1 comment:

  1. I chased it with coconut milk and promptly felt like a d-bag


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