Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

As I sit on a semi-crowded subway car (crowded depends on what kind of New Yorker you are: the die-hard, new transplant, or wannabe vis-a-vie the tourist), the woman on the right scratches bingo lotto tickets in hopes of striking gold. The woman on the left takes an unseemly amount of photos of herself wearing a child's hat. I, stuck very literally in the middle, feel the effects of finals grade deadlines, days of grading, and the post semester exhaustion setting into my weary ladden academic bones. I think back to late August and the jokes of my new superpower being Syllabitch, as I cranked out five different syllabi. The first days of class, getting to know the atmosphere of the two campuses I teach at, memories of New York flooding me at every turn, the thrill of autumn, and the joys of my job. I wore heels every stinkin' day until late October when I did something unkind to my knee. I sported a big, scary assed brace, fought the gimp look, and begged my doctor for a smaller...

It's been two months since I could wear my sweet, sexy heels. They've missed me, and I've missed them. They impatiently stared at me, with forlorn looks of dismay. They thought I had eschewed them for the well worn trainers of 10Ks and 1/2 marathons. Tonight I took my favorite Nine Wests on the town, to American Trash in Manhattan. Being sans brace for two weeks has been wonderful, but a nice night in my favorite heels is even better. Did we dance? No. Did we climb subway stairs and walk the grimy and well worn lighted streets of Manhattan? YES! Did we drink too much at a one of the only dive/working class/biker bars on the Upper West Side? Hells yes. Did we get free shots from the bar keep, drink Jack and Coke to raised eyes, and play wing girl while the gal pal had a drunkard hit on her in epic proportions? Oh yea. Did we do this after the Physical Therapist said I should take it easier? Perhaps. Are we waiting for the N train back to Astoria? Yes, yes indeed. I...

Venturing out during the Christmas, anywhere in the States, take a certain level of intestinal fortitude, hootspa, and resilience. Aw, hell, who am I kidding? I should've packed bourbon in my Coach. I ventured into Soho for some yarn, for those implied Christmas gifts, and along Broadway touristy shoppers, NY shoppers, and street vendors jostled me along. At many points there was no air between me and the next soul. Along NY streets noticing odd smells is not unusual, but noticing body odor is something else. About two weeks ago The Times, I believe, had an article about hipsters not showering on the regular basis. More so, these happenin' chumps don't use deodorant either. Well folks, I am no-so-proud to tell you that these fools are not urban legend. The streets, impressed with Christmas shoppers and people in various levels of batshit crazy, oozed of roasted chestnuts, evergreen sprigs, and the stinky, stinky hispter. These fools make my nose hairs curl, my face contort...

Well...much like I don't introduce my future break-ups to people in my life, I do not discuss the dynamics of my dates until after they've gone down the crapper. For nearly a month I was doing the pre-dating tango with a guy. Not shagging, but just talking. It was nice, novel, and sweet. Then, then one night I had the infamous butterfly on my face. After a month of shameless flirting, he saw the rash and asked "What's on your face?" Me: "A Lupus rash." He asked what that is, and I told him an autoimmune disease that in laymen's terms means my body thinks I'm allergic to me. I chuckled and reminded him that he can't catch it. That was right before Halloween. What did he do? He slinkered away, just like they always do. After all of these years you'd think I'd be used to it. You'd think I'd have an invincible thick skin. For the most part I do, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still piss me off. Sigh. Another one bites...