Why don't I start you off with a song to accompany your reading? No worries, this one's catchy, not creepy like the last. "Meet Me In the Bathroom"-The Strokes
As I sit here, at my desk, typing away on my Dell PC (which, by the way, was a real fine piece of machinery when it was gifted to me back in 2007, but is now showing all signs of seriously considering shitting the bed), I am feeling pretty uplifted.
Why? Because I have a jean jacket that I bought for $5 at Goodwill a couple weeks back and I ate cherry flavored Jello for dinner tonight.
Oh yes, and yesterday, on my two-week anniversary of being unemployed, I got a new job. And the crowd goes wild (please imagine muffled, whisper-like cheering noises, as I am currently making them). However, that is sort of neither here nor there, being that I won't be discussing the job itself, but rather the revelation I had while in pursuit.
That revelation being that it is impossible to feel bad about yourself in New York City if you don't want to. Here's why: People in New York City are really weird. As a matter of fact, feel free to replace "weird" with almost any adjective that might equate to sketchy, odd, unusual, or abnormal. I'm talking full-on strange.
And I am so grateful.
On Tuesday morning, as I got ready for the first round of interviews, I was feeling nervous. So, to counteract those nerves I thought to myself, "Ok Gab, knock it off. Take a shower and then do everything in your power to get your act together as best as you can in the most superficial way possible." You know, fake it 'til you make it. Or, in the words of the classic SNL sketch "Fernando's Hideaway" featuring Billy Crystal,
"It is better to look good than to feel good."
Sometimes, it really is. So I went ahead and did that. I put on my finest button-down-business-type shirt and pencil skirt (and by finest I mean only), a nice new pair of "sheer" tights, which were not so much sheer as they were mocha, and a shiny pair of heels that would eventually cause me to leave my interview with bloodied ankles and no feeling in either of my big toes. I even went the extra mile and ran a brush through my hair. Real professional-like.
Then, on the 40 minute trek from my friend's place in Brooklyn to the office in Times Square, several people verbally harassed me in the most vulgar ways imaginable. Instances ranged from a whistle, to a couple of lip-smacks, to a long, drawn-out "damn," to a very expressive gentleman who took the trouble to stop me and say, "God bless you and your body, baby."
If only they all knew how sweaty I was and that I had blood pooling in my shoes.
But, they didn't. So good for me.
Right now you may be thinking, "Why would you like that?" Or, "Ew." Or maybe even, "That's scary." I would like to take this moment to just say that if you are thinking one of those things or something else along those lines, you have a poor attitude.
Sexual harassment? I think not. I look at it more as unsolicited encouragement from some enthusiastic strangers. Choo-choo, this is your conductor speaking, welcome aboard the positive spin train.
Now, sure, I did go out of my way to look presentable and therefore, may have warranted more of a reaction than I normally would. However, I am certain that I could get an equally strong reaction if I found myself in the right part of the right town. More good news, I'm no exception to the rule.
Which brings me to my point: You too can feel this great about yourself in New York City. No matter your body-type, hair color, style, etc. There is some creep out there in some creepy place waiting to let you know just how enticing you actually are.
Just don't make eye contact and carry a small weapon.
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