Walking in NYC presents several challenges and eccentricities, which I typically adore, sometimes abhor, and other times sprint away from in humiliation. Interestingly, this week, I had a little of all three.
It all started when I saw David Duchovny. Apparently this recently appointed sex addict has a new series on television, but it is Fox Mulder that gets me riled up. So I am prancing down 77th street when I noticed him with his wife, with whom my Mom informs me he is” working it out” with, and two kids. I waddled past him in full on bag lady attire complete with two overloaded shopping bags, an overnight bag, and an ill-fitting sweatshirt. As we made eye contact, a familiar feeling greeted me. Every time I see a celebrity I get a little shimmer of satisfaction that affirms my city of choice. Even if that particular celebrity stares you up and down like a liability to said city of choice.
So I am a celebrity whore and gather sightings like a rodent prior to hibernation, giddy to bring back the loot to the nest, aka the girls at work. Okay so celebrity sightings are fun, especially when you spot same celebrity a few days later looking much less bag lady-ish. What is less fun and while abhor might be a bit strong, certain run ins with street dwellers leave me at a constant state of unease. I am all about the homeless don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those never give a dollar, just get up and get a job ranters, however it does leave me mildly uncomfortable to know that I am essentially walking through someone else’s living room at any given moment of any given day.
Anyway case in point, I am gallivanting home from work today having a glorious time when I noticed a little abandoned bed on a church stoop. There was a nice soft rolled up pillow and a cozy looking sleeping bag. There was even a newspaper for pre bedtime reading. I wondered for a moment why anyone would abandon this glorious abode until I looked about30 degrees to my right to notice the apparent tenant urinating on a parked car. I couldn’t believe someone would openly expose himself like this and allow himself to public humiliation, until I remembered what happened to me just days earlier that still has me feeling a shade of maroon I have never seen on human flesh.
As anyone who knows me is aware, I hate pants. I wear skirts and dresses as a general rule and when the weather allows, the lighter and more flowing the better. On this particularly gusty day I decided to head out to the flea market in my lightest and flowiest dress of all. For the majority of my perusing I held a white knuckled fist around a bulk of my gathered dress so that I would not flash all of New York City and frighten small children. So I traveled to Brooklyn and back with out baring my buns and I was feeling pretty great until I got out of the subway. There I am walking along the grate when suddenly I was met with a trifecta of a giant gust of wind, subway grate air up flow, and a speeding traffic.
The result was the entirety of my dress over my head. In seconds I was essentially nude in front of hundreds of people. After fighting my way out of a tangle of fabric I was met by pointing fingers, scarred tourists, and bemused pedestrians. My apologies were greeted by horrified looks of shock and disdain. Needless to say it was mildly embarrassing and I am working on replenishing my wardrobe with sturdier fabrics. Lesson learned, although I am sure this is not the last time I will be greeted by any of these scenarios. All one can do is try to remain fully clothed, look like somewhat of a non criminal, and try to remain reasonable calm. Although I pretty much fail these tasks on a daily basis, don’t fret; I will continue to dream big.