"I See You, Miss America"
Friday night, I broke my own "nothing but jammie pants and the couch on Fridays" rule and headed downtown to meet a friend for a talk by some editors of "The Onion." After an amusing opening schtick and a way-less-interesting Q&A with the audience, we hit up a nearby restaurant for a snack and drink before parting ways.
That ways-parting happened a lot later than I'm used to downtown, but since it was one of our first really lovely spring-like nights, the streets were still pretty busy within a block of the restaurant we'd gone to. I'd lucked out on parking and had snagged a spot in the garage in that block -- kind of a miracle because I generally have terrible luck parking, my feet were super sore from standing for two hours in pinchy boots at a retirement party earlier that evening, and the ballet, symphony and Public Theater were all in business that night.
Unfortunately, the elevator with the easiest access to my car was around the block, and the party atmosphere I walked through on one street quickly gave way to scary emptiness as I rounded the corner. I tried to hobble along more quickly in my tight boots and with my sore knee, and project a level of confidence I didn't feel. Right before I saw the door to enter the garage, and old guy walked past me and said "I see you, Miss America," and kept right on walking with a little smile on his face.
Now, I certainly look nothing like any Miss America in the history of the pageant. I was hot and sweaty. I'm chubby. I needed a shower. My hair was a wreck. I felt a crop of new blemishes popping up all over my chin. But hey. Who I am to argue with an old security guard, heading home for the night — especially one who thinks I'm awesome?
I reached for the door and pulled at it with a renewed sense of confidence. And it didn't budge.
It was locked.
I had to enter on the other side of the building at that hour. You know, directly across from the restaurant where I'd just been. I turned around and hauled ass all the way back from whence I'd come.
I guess sometimes even Miss America makes mistakes.
That ways-parting happened a lot later than I'm used to downtown, but since it was one of our first really lovely spring-like nights, the streets were still pretty busy within a block of the restaurant we'd gone to. I'd lucked out on parking and had snagged a spot in the garage in that block -- kind of a miracle because I generally have terrible luck parking, my feet were super sore from standing for two hours in pinchy boots at a retirement party earlier that evening, and the ballet, symphony and Public Theater were all in business that night.
Unfortunately, the elevator with the easiest access to my car was around the block, and the party atmosphere I walked through on one street quickly gave way to scary emptiness as I rounded the corner. I tried to hobble along more quickly in my tight boots and with my sore knee, and project a level of confidence I didn't feel. Right before I saw the door to enter the garage, and old guy walked past me and said "I see you, Miss America," and kept right on walking with a little smile on his face.
Now, I certainly look nothing like any Miss America in the history of the pageant. I was hot and sweaty. I'm chubby. I needed a shower. My hair was a wreck. I felt a crop of new blemishes popping up all over my chin. But hey. Who I am to argue with an old security guard, heading home for the night — especially one who thinks I'm awesome?
I reached for the door and pulled at it with a renewed sense of confidence. And it didn't budge.
It was locked.
I had to enter on the other side of the building at that hour. You know, directly across from the restaurant where I'd just been. I turned around and hauled ass all the way back from whence I'd come.
I guess sometimes even Miss America makes mistakes.
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