This morning, I had to drop something off on Worth Street. I could not find a cab from my address on Bowery though to be fair I didn’t necessarily want to find a cab (I am currently three weeks strong on a yellow vehicle cleanse — we can talk about it later), so, as I exited my building, well knowing what lay ahead, I confidently surmised that I’d walk.
Sure, I heard there would be wind, that the temperature had once again dropped but I also thought that the worst was behind us. That after such a pleasant couplet of days, both of which hitting near 60 degree, a 27-day in March couldn’t possibly be as bad as the ones we’ve had to champion heretofore.
The fact of the matter is, though, when married to a wind chill and gusts that run faster than Forrest Gump ever could have, it’s worse.
So. Much. Worse.
On my walk, I counted 16 paper bags flying among the low rises of Soho. I cried because no matter how well I tried to bundle myself up — neck scarf, wool scarf, hat and coat — my eyes were still exposed to the wrath of this day and they refused to stop tearing.
I bled mucus into my scarf because evidently, every orifice that belongs to my face has something to discharge when it winds and at one point, when I hit Canal Street near West Broadway, I actually fell. I know this is much more a function of my being unwieldy but I’d be hard pressed to imagine that I might find myself face to concrete whilst the chirping birds and blossoming hydrangeas of merrier days occupy our city.
When I got to my destination (this was after several bouts of having to walk against the wind which left me looking like a constipated rock climber, holding a large brown paper bag that was acting like a manic version of the Taco Bell chihuahua), I couldn’t feel my fingers or my toes. I strongly advised whoever would listen to stay in doors until tomorrow and then I set out again to return to where I came from. No cabs — just me, my legs, and three loud shrieks — ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! — that would unfold between North Moore and Bleecker Streets.
But now that I’m back and indoors and have shared the tales of my anguish, I think it’s only appropriate that we lament together. Were you blown away in all the wrong ways this morning? Did you try to get a coffee but find that your damn fingers froze before you could even pay? Did the wind kind of feel like an angry parent smacking you for having ruined a freshly painted garage door? Is a hamstring on the backside of your left leg hurting?
I would rather watch my grandmother pretend she is Jenna Jameson in bed than deal with another day like this one. Are you with me?
Okay, okay, maybe I went a little too far but come on! Bitch with us! Use this space as your deposit box of anger and get. It. Off. Yo. Chest.