Every Day has a Snag

Sometimes it’s literal.

Today was my first day at my Big New Job. I planned my outfit the day I received the offer. I borrowed a purse from my mother to accompany said outfit. (How cool/sad is it that my elderly mother has better accessories than I do?) I watched the weather as I was getting ready this morning, and heard the weatherman say, “If it’s already sprinkling where you are, it’s going to be raining harder soon.”

As I stepped outside my building, I noticed it was sprinkling. A few minutes later, it really started to come down. And sideways. By the time I got to the subway, my feet were soaked, and I could wring out my hair. When I left the subway, it was even worse.

My hair was mostly dry by the time I had a new badge photo taken, but it wasn’t cute. The bottom half of my dress dried out sometime during lunch. It was a little after that time that I looked down and realized that I had two large runs in my pantyhose. They both started in the foot, curved up the ankle, and went all the way up the outside of my leg. Why, for the love of pagan holidays was I wearing hosiery? Well, it was the first day and I didn’t want to push the boundaries of casualness. Yah, ‘cause wearing nylons with giant visible runs makes such a better impression.

By the time I left the office, the rain had mostly cleared up. And then, walking home from the subway, my shoe fell off mid-stride. And before I knew what had happened, my practically-naked foot was on a wet New York City sidewalk, and then it was back inside my new red shoe. And now I will forever think of that shoe as contaminated.

Tomorrow, there will be no hose.

T-1

This is the end of an era. I’ve used that phrase before for lesser things, but this time it’s true. Tomorrow will be my last day with my employer of the last 12 years. I’m prone to nostalgia anyway, so this week has me feeling quite cognizant of everything that’s about to change. There are little things like wondering when I’ll ever be on 125th Street again; and big things, like the ever-growing recognition that I am about to be the new kid in a way I haven’t been since I was actually a kid. Then there are a lot of things in between.

In many ways I consider myself change averse; I am drawn to a life of consistency. But as much as I feel that, I can’t stop this continuing urge I have to adjust my life in ways big and small.

Dancing Like My Mother

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A $20.50* Snooze

I am not a morning person. Never have been, and, at this point, have pretty much concluded that I never will be. If it were up to me, I would never speak before 11am. It takes every ounce of emotional strength I have to say, “Thank you” to the man at the subway who hands me the newspaper and to the conductor on the train.

I set multiple alarms, not because I’m afraid they won’t go off, but because I know I’ll sleep through them. It happens. Missed all four of them just a few weeks ago. I try to give myself extra time in the morning to get going, but nothing seems to motivate me to get out the door. I tell myself that if I leave by 7:40 I can have a leisurely stroll to the subway, yet somehow wind up leaving later than that and race-walking up the street.

This morning I got a late start. I snoozed a few times (which is pretty typical), didn’t hurry too much while getting ready, and got out the door one minute later than I was really comfortable with. I missed the subway by 4 seconds. No exaggeration: the doors had just closed as I got to the platform. Not that big of a deal: this time of day they come every 2-3 minutes. Two minutes pass. Three minutes pass. I check the time on my cell phone. Five minutes pass. More math in my head. Eight minutes after I missed the subway, another one pulls in, and as the train carries me uptown, I calculate the odds of me making my train to Connecticut. They aren’t good. Sure enough, I emerge from the subway, and run around the corner just in time to see my train pulling away.

I wait half an hour for the next train and realize that in addition to strolling into work unusually late, I have another problem. I will miss the last shuttle from the train station to my office. So, when I arrive, I look high and low, and eventually find a taxi (but not before finding an ATM so I can pay for said taxi).

And now I wonder, will the pain of this morning get me out the door any sooner tomorrow? Probably not.

*$20.50 is the cost of the taxi ride, plus the fees for the non-affiliated ATM.

Is This Part of Christmas in July?

I mentioned some time ago that my employer is on a health kick. They’ve been on an eco kick even longer. They reduce their footprint; they develop resource-saving technologies; they turn off unnecessary lights. Why then, for the love of all that’s holy, is my office colder in August than it is in February?

This isn’t a trick question; I’m not located below the equator. And it’s not unique to this building. Every commercial structure I go in this time of year blasts me with air that feels fresh from the arctic. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate Freon as much as the next girl. But, when the temperature inside makes my nose run, there’s something wrong.

I mentioned this to an angry old man that I work with, and he informed me that I should wear a sweater. Really? The daytime temperature here hasn’t been below 85 in weeks, yet I’m supposed to bundle up?

Survey says? Yes. Here I sit, wearing a hoodie over my lovely summer dress, to prevent the frostbite that would inevitably settle in otherwise. I can hardly wait for the snow to start falling so I can get warm.

A Double Standard

It is a law universally accepted that when it comes to female footwear, there is an inverse proportional relationship between cuteness and comfort. I haven’t gathered any formal data, but it seems to me that a whole bunch of my female commuting compatriots travel in flip-flops, sneakers, and ballet flats. I imagine that many of them pull a Mr. Rogers and change their shoes once they arrive at work, just like I do.

I hardly even notice what anyone is wearing on their feet. But this morning I noticed something, and then realized that I am a horrible hypocrite. There was a man standing on the train platform wearing a button-down shirt and nice slacks, and holding a briefcase. He was also wearing plastic flip-flops. And it was oh so wrong. I wear flip-flops with my dress clothes because the shoes that actually look appropriate with my work attire make it impossible for me to walk to the subway without some degree of pain. I’ve been under the (mistaken?) impression that men’s shoes proposed no such problem. Really, if I could wear loafers everyday, I wouldn’t need to have a drawer full of shoes at my desk. Am I just a hypocrite?

Too Much of a Good Thing

I like to think that I’m pretty adaptable. If I hadn’t been before all this moving nonsense, I certainly am now. My first night in New York I didn’t sleep very soundly. I was aware of the hum the fridge makes, the whir of the air, the light from the clock on the stove, and the cacophony from the street. Within a few nights I was blissfully unaware of all of these.

I spent the first week of August in Maine. Sunday night was my first night back in my new home. And I found myself in a re-run of my first night here. Apparently my sleeping self adapted to Maine, forgetting that I wasn’t staying all that long.