In certain moments when I’m walking through the streets of New York, obviously contemplating the universe and the future of humanity, I feel a sense of thankfulness that no one is able to read my stream of consciousness. Just imagine a train rerouting on numerous different tracks at 151 miles an hour and you have an image of what my thought process entails. This is how it typically goes:
[Carly has just gotten off the subway at 14th street and is walking at a respectable pace to work, sporting boots that hit her ankles and make her clavicles look slim.]
Why are there so many French bulldogs in this area? I mean, every time I’m here, it’s just like, “Look at me I’m a french bulldog and my life is fancier than yours! You know how much this sweater cost? More than your paycheck you Brooklyn punk!” Probably because french bulldogs can’t reproduce on their own and with their increased market value, they’ve become THE dog. Hey! That french bulldog’s owner just gave me the side eye. Walk faster pal I have a job to get to! Could I eat off this pastry truck without getting sick? Would I get sick eating off any cart? I ate off that one near MOCA and felt okay. I haven’t been to enough places in New York … or own enough shoes. That man hogging the pole on the subway had nice oxfords. You know, handsome Asian men are a gift to everyone on the subway. Lets be honest, they’re a gift to everyone everywhere. I wonder how many people met their partners on the subway. Are soul mates real? Should I get a Starbucks ice tea or make one at work?
This is typical inner dialogue for me and usually only curtailed when I realize, why aren’t I using all this available brain space to plan the future of Voices? There are thousands of thoughts that come and go everyday, and then there are ones that become season regulars, popping up when I least expect them and sending me back to the drawing board on how to properly answer/address them. These have been my recent front runners:
The worst thing about winter is walking into a bar and instantly having your glasses fog up. You stand there, frozen in place, blocking the only fire exit, waiting to gain your vision back again. There is just no winning in that situation and it’s safe to say, that’s not the moment men run from the bar offering to buy you a drink. It’s either go blind or live for a few minutes in the treacherous cloudiness only the White Walkers understand.
Don’t worry, I already high fived myself for that solid Game of Thrones reference.
When I first bought my beanie, I was sold that it was one of the coolest things ever created. Not only did it keep me freakishly warm, but my friends would never lose me because I had a giant pom pom on my head. But the other day, after seeing my reflection in a Starbucks window, I realized my beanie wasn’t only giant, it was enormous! It made me at least four inches taller. It’s identical to a party hat you’d find at Hagrid’s birthday. On a giant, it’s a fashion statement, on a 5’5 lady, it’s a wizarding hat. This made me love it even more. And also made me realize how ridiculous I look every time I wear it.
That woman with the perfect outfit on the subway isn’t ever going to be you. And that’s okay. On the same day I recognized my beanie could have been an extra in Harry Potter, I saw the most put together woman get onto the subway. I’m talking the perfect red slouchy beanie worn just right way, the perfect nails, the spotless ankle boots snuggled up again a pair of flawless cropped pants which ran into her turtleneck and flattering snow jacket. I didn’t even know a flattering snow jacket was possible! I think at one point during the ride, her beanie actually laughed at mine. And then mine flipped hers off and they didn’t make eye contact the rest of the trip.
But the thing I’ve come to learn is, it’s okay to be imperfect in this city, as long as you stay true to what makes you feel the most you. For me, that’s animal sweaters, wizard snow caps, and mismatched socks — all items covered in a layer of cat hair because how else would men know I was single. For other people, it’s pumps, perfume, and the entire petite section of Anthropology. To each is there own.
No one should be smoking in the West Village and here’s why:
Dear Smokers in my favorite neighborhood of the city,
What the hell are you doing! You can afford to live in the most dreamy, expensive, quintessential New York part of the Big Apple and you’re going to shorten your time here by puffing on that death stick!?!? You’ve gained entrance into the club the rest of us can only desperately dream about and you’re going to squander your health! You should be ashamed of yourself. If I were you, I would be pounding the vitamins and kale to guarantee I’d be able to enjoy at least 67 years in my brownstone. You’re a ninny and I don’t like you.
Not Best to You,
^^ If you haven’t heard of Sparky Sweets PhD and his education channel Thug Notes, you’re about to experience the treat of your life. ^^