I really did intend for yesterday to be better.
The best of intentions...
Wedding-day-dress-shopping-day-two. No need to dress quite so fancy. I'd wear flats, loafers. I'd don makeup and a pair of pedal-pushers (Remember that term? Let's bring it back, shall we?), but I'd be comfortable. Myself.
I wouldn't overreach.
I got on the F train. Decided not to transfer to the 6. I'd ride it as far as I could in Manhattan and then just walk a bit.
But I was a little late.
And the train ride was so long. And there was a little anxiety--I started to have a little anxiety. About everything and nothing. And all I could think was, I'm gonna need a good cry today.
And some months it's hormones, you know? Some months even I'm floored that as the hormones surge, emotions go amok.
I got off at 63rd and Lex.
Let it be known that I hate the Upper East Side. I just do. And the station there at 63rd is like four full flights of (long) stairs underground--by the time I made it to the street I was more than a little out of breath.
So I decided to hail a cab--I thrust my arm into the air and took off to the corner. At which point I collided with a woman who was walking forward as she looked behind her. It was both of our faults. But because of the physics of how we were moving and something, she remained upright, while I went absolutely flying. I mean...even I was shocked by the force with which I hit the ground. She helped me up at which point she made some comment about that's what happens when two people aren't looking--making sure to include herself, but...I was already on the mat. Actually and metaphorically and I didn't need a lecture.
I climbed into the cab. A little bit humilited and a little bit shaken--a tear in my pedal pushers. And that's when I had a panic attack. Trying not to cry, and trying desperately to get some air to my lungs, and the cab driver...bless him, was just. out of his. depth.
Don't cry, don't cry, you make me cry. I crawled out of the cab at the bridal salon and into the arms of my friend Joy. She couldn't tell if I was crying or laughing--and to her credit, both were happening: messily and all at once.
Some weeks you just can't win.
Spilt coffee, cut knees. A whole lotta mess.
Some weeks New York is just too hard.