I recently moved to the East Village/ Lower East Side (my apartment is kind of on the border and some people say I live in the EV, others claim it's LES--all I know is that it's filled with good-looking hipsters and lots of bars for me to drown my sorrows in). It's a "cool" neighborhood, so naturally I barely fit in. Despite this, I'm really trying--I keep buying scarves and fake leather jackets and Chuck Palahniuk books and boots that only Uncle Jesse or Harley from Boy Meets World would wear. I love the neighborhood but my building isn't the nicest-- despite the fact that it has a "doorman" (who spends a lot of time yelling at soccer games and only occasionally mans the door), it also kind of feels like a college dorm, complete with weird murals on the walls and smells of Chinese food and vomit lingering in the halls.
There’s tons of young people living here so I had hopes that I would stumble upon a group of coffee and whiskey swilling , who would incorporate me into their group and call me Choebe (combo of Chandler and Phoebe). But it turns out most of my building's inhabitants are symptomatic (snobby and awesome) of the neighborhood, so unfortunately I haven’t found a hot new musician boyfriend yet, or made best friends with a former child actress, or befriended Natasha Lyonne (I saw her on my street and I think I can save her!!).
Anyway, onto my story...
After working late the night before, Wednesday morning started out like every other, beginning with an hour long fight with my snooze button and followed by another particularly brutal fight with myself over whether i needed to shower (a quick look in the mirror awarded TreSemme the win). After crying in the shower in anticipation for another day at the office, I emerged in a towel (both scarring my roommate and myself). Walking into my clothes, paper and book strewn room, I had to make my big decision of the day-- what I should wear to work. Little did I know that today's decision would provide to be one of my top ten embarrassing moments, a list that seems to grow with each passing moment of my sorry life.
I personally believe that the day's incident stems from my newfound refusal to wear pants. See, I hate wearing the devil's denim because every pair of my jeans are tight on me right now and it hurts to wear them, especially when I sit down or eat food. Plus when I take them off (the second I get home from work), there’s all these judgmental red marks on B.O.B. (belly over belt) that remind me I need to get back my ass back to the Chinatown Y. (For both the workout and the flirtation I’ve started with Li, a personal trainer who not only taught me what a flex band is but also showed me what love is.)
In my denial of my denim, I threw on the leggings that I got in the children’s section of Target. They are super cute with lace on the ends and they only cost $4. (They're a kids size 14-16 which prompted my mom--as she did my laundry-- to ask me if they were actually a women's size 14--thanks Mom, not there yet).
I also put on my favorite underwear, a lime green pair from Old Navy kids (Don’t judge. They are super cute and have a picture of a bird on the butt! Risque!). I then threw on a T-shirt that was apparently not long enough to cover my ass and walked out the door.
As I walked through the lobby, a scruffy and beautiful hipster I had stared at longingly before stopped me. Yes, I thought. He’s finally going to ask me out. Maybe we’ll even go to that secret bar with no name! “Excuse me. Do you live here?” “Yes,” I replied, attempting to bat my stubs of eyelashes. “Well, you might want to run back upstiars. Your tights are kind of see through”. I choked on my Activia drinkable yogurt (it tastes really good! Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite genius!) and said “Oh. Oh. Um. OH. okay. Thanks.” I ran back upstairs, changed, and spent the rest of the day with a red face.
And now every time I see Max (I don’t know his real name but he looks like his name is Max), I hide.
Because let's face it-- there’s really no recovering from that.