(no subject)
Mornings like this, black coffee is ambrosia.
Sleeplessly getting out of bed at six:thirty. The thought of blow-dried hair and red lipstick, of all things, is what pulls me out of bed this morning. A long shower, washing my clothing with a washboard (incognito as an instrument). Selection: a too-tight crisp button-up, a emerald-green sweater, torn & worn black jeans with gaping holes in the knee, lace heels. Nothing like lipstick, lace, and blow-dried hair to make ordinary girls feel like movie stars, I think. I take my time, watching the mirror like television, though unlike television it's got more than three channels.
I'm walking to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. It's not romantic, but you wouldn't know that by how fast my heart is beating. It's like I've stepped out of a fog, and now I notice strangers smiling on the street. A gentleman outside the pharmacy says, "You look gorgeous," and rather than feeling squicked out as I normally would, it feels like a Joan of Arcadia moment.
I'm noticing buildings, bits of history digging their ways through walls onto the front facades. I pass churches and cafes. A park with benches and signs. I smile at a dog without noticing the owner.
Across from the pharmacy, I notice a diner and love it instantly for the fact that it is unremarkable, the kind of diner that you could find anywhere. You can step in and be transported to anywhere in the world. The only difference is what people you watch while drinking coffee out of the archetypal white plastic cup. The blonde woman eating a hamburger and french fries at 8 o'clock a.m. The homeless man pushing a cart with a cigar in his mouth, who asks me what I'm reading. I say poetry and he nods. There's a lady in the back who's breastfeeding as she watches the news. The waiter asks me if I want more coffee, if I want my cream cheese on my bagel or on the side. Both of these feel like big decisions, but he's patient and I tip well.
If it was really a bagel I wanted, I wouldn't have gone to the diner. This is New York, Land of Bagels. I can walk outside and trip on bagels. I can wear bagels in my hair and either be mistaken for Princess Leia or a crazy person, though since Bluetooth became popular, you can't tell who's crazy and who's on the phone.
A man burps behind me as I'm crossing the street. I turn around and he is not a man after all. She is a woman wearing leggings as though they were pants. They are not pants.
At the pharmacy, leopard-print Snuggies are sold. Doesn't one defeat the purpose of the other?
I'm dreading going shopping for new jeans to replace the hol[e]y ones. I am convinced that every woman hates jean-shopping. It is noteworthy to be able to share this among common frustration womenfolk of all heights & widths.
Sleeplessly getting out of bed at six:thirty. The thought of blow-dried hair and red lipstick, of all things, is what pulls me out of bed this morning. A long shower, washing my clothing with a washboard (incognito as an instrument). Selection: a too-tight crisp button-up, a emerald-green sweater, torn & worn black jeans with gaping holes in the knee, lace heels. Nothing like lipstick, lace, and blow-dried hair to make ordinary girls feel like movie stars, I think. I take my time, watching the mirror like television, though unlike television it's got more than three channels.
I'm walking to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. It's not romantic, but you wouldn't know that by how fast my heart is beating. It's like I've stepped out of a fog, and now I notice strangers smiling on the street. A gentleman outside the pharmacy says, "You look gorgeous," and rather than feeling squicked out as I normally would, it feels like a Joan of Arcadia moment.
I'm noticing buildings, bits of history digging their ways through walls onto the front facades. I pass churches and cafes. A park with benches and signs. I smile at a dog without noticing the owner.
Across from the pharmacy, I notice a diner and love it instantly for the fact that it is unremarkable, the kind of diner that you could find anywhere. You can step in and be transported to anywhere in the world. The only difference is what people you watch while drinking coffee out of the archetypal white plastic cup. The blonde woman eating a hamburger and french fries at 8 o'clock a.m. The homeless man pushing a cart with a cigar in his mouth, who asks me what I'm reading. I say poetry and he nods. There's a lady in the back who's breastfeeding as she watches the news. The waiter asks me if I want more coffee, if I want my cream cheese on my bagel or on the side. Both of these feel like big decisions, but he's patient and I tip well.
If it was really a bagel I wanted, I wouldn't have gone to the diner. This is New York, Land of Bagels. I can walk outside and trip on bagels. I can wear bagels in my hair and either be mistaken for Princess Leia or a crazy person, though since Bluetooth became popular, you can't tell who's crazy and who's on the phone.
A man burps behind me as I'm crossing the street. I turn around and he is not a man after all. She is a woman wearing leggings as though they were pants. They are not pants.
At the pharmacy, leopard-print Snuggies are sold. Doesn't one defeat the purpose of the other?
I'm dreading going shopping for new jeans to replace the hol[e]y ones. I am convinced that every woman hates jean-shopping. It is noteworthy to be able to share this among common frustration womenfolk of all heights & widths.