Mostly I don't know how it happens.

How a passing funk just passes.

But it does.

I think it has something to do with the weather.

And a visiting girlfriend who is so damn smart that you watch her and think yes--that is a game I'd like to play and suddenly, over the course of a day, your vocabulary is elevated and you find your mind is pliable--hell, it likes to be stretched.

And I think it has to do with reading books in which the heroine is ballsy and adventurous and unyielding in her desire to just live. life. better. (which really means living. life. fuller).

I think it has to do with live music. And good food. And nights out. And rooftop bars. And making eyes with good looking men.

And it passes.

Mostly, it probably has to do with the passing of time. And just seeing it out.

Yesterday I woke early. Showered. Put on makeup. Dressed myself in some of my better clothes. I was meeting one of my dearest friends at Vera Wang so that she might try on wedding dresses. And I thought: when one goes to Vera Wang, one must dress for the occasion.

And as I headed to the subway, coffee in hand, I caught a glimpse of my reflection and thought, not so bad today. not. so. bad.

It was at Broadway-Lafayette, transferring to the 6 train, that disaster struck. The train was already in the station as I got off the escalator and I rushed around the corner to beat the closing doors. I stuck my elbow in such a way as to prop the doors open. It was a smooth move--I felt good about it. The doors would open all the way, I'd walk in, they'd close, and that'd be that.

But they didn't open all the way. And this caught me off guard.

Have you ever seen someone's coffee shoot three feet into the air (not the cup, just the coffee)? Well...let me tell you, it's something to behold. It happens when they squeeze the coffee cup and the lid shoots off and...think of trying to crush a beer can--that's sort of what happened to my cardboard cup.

Except that there was no trying. It simply happened.

The coffee wasn't hot. So at least there was that. But some of it landed on a man (though not much, and he was wearing a black coat, so... small miracles). Most of it landed on the floor. And on me.

Sticky hands.

I was so embarrassed I got off at the next station and waited for the next train--which is what I should have done in the first place. YES. I SEE THE IRONY IN THAT.

New York has a way of putting you in your place. The moment you get too comfortable or too cocky the 6 train comes along and absolutely schools you. Or you run into that person you never wanted to see again and you think, blerg, this city is too small.

This is all to say, I walked into Vera Wang reeking of spilt coffee and with a trench missing a button (I'd like to blame the button on the train debacle, but I've needed to sew that button on for months now, which makes it all the more embarrassing--I can hear my mother rolling her eyes all the way from Texas). But it's so who I am--mostly smoke and mirrors where looking-pulled-together is concerned. Let's be honest, I'm the gal that'll don fake-eyelashes and worry that when at the end of the night the man kisses me they'll come right off, right on his cheek (it has yet to happen, but it's just a matter of time). In fact I'm waiting to see that scene in some rom-com (intellectual property claim).

Today Joy and I are off to Monique Lhuillier. And I'm hoping to walk in with a little more grace. I'm sipping my coffee now, and will wait for the 6, if need be.