it was so hot in new york the other day.
so hot that i wanted nothing more than to get home, strip to my bones, get as close to the floor as possible and just lie there. not move. just press into any remaining winter that the floor might've retained.
instead i purchased a pint of ben and jerry's at the corner store and trekked down the hill, toward the river, breathing in the heavy, still, hot air.
i was barely in the elevator before i could take it no longer. off the top of that ice cream flew and there i found myself face first in a pint of ben and jerry's half-baked.
no spoon. just dove right in.
it was not a pretty sight. me face first in a pint of ice cream.
and as i was there getting equal parts cold and mess all over, the thought i kept coming back to was: if something were to happen to me. if in the next few days something really bad were to happen and the police had to go looking for some trace or trail, they'd come across this. this elevator surveillance. of me. face first. pint of ice cream.
i weighed my odds. sent up a prayer for my continued health and safety. and sojourned on (foodie that i am).
and just as the elevator neared the sixth floor, the doors opened and my fifth-floor neighbor stepped on-- the one who always says hello--the one with the children i remember to ask about. he appraised me. smiled. said something about catching me in a weak moment.
and i just stood there, pint in hand. one painful floor more. face covered in chocolate and flushed with being-found-out.
i finally arrived home. pulled out a bowl. plucked a spoon from the drawer. stripped to a tank and shorts. situated myself directly in front of the fan and carefully (and demurely) ate what was left.
new york city living really is terribly glamorous. and sometimes a gal shouldn't have to wait.