It’s 10pm. The movers will be here at 9 sharp tomorrow morning to take away two years of accumulated crap to my new apartment downtown.
I am totally inept at packing. It’s taken me days and days, and I’m still not finished. It seems that the more boxes I collect, the more shoes, bottles of perfume, dishes I have. Packing is a lot like Parkinson’s Law, which states that work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion. Only instead of the time it takes to complete a task, it is the boxes it takes me to fill up with my random collection of living supplies.
Once I acquire a box, I find another pile of books.
I can swim. It took me a few years to learn, but I finally, hesitantly, learned. But I won’t show you.
When I swim I look like I am drowning, but somehow manage to stay afloat. And I have to hold my nose. On second thought, I wouldn’t look so ridiculous if I didn’t have to hold my nose. For example, I can do a perfectly acceptable dive . . . with a face mask on. And I can float on my back for hours.
Still, I prefer hot tubs to swimming pools anyday.
“Standing in a 15 minute line at Starbucks across from the MetLife Building, watching traffic inch forward on 45th Street and debating between an iced venti skinny vanilla latte or the new DoubleShot on ice, you would never know the U.S. is headed for recession.” –-Jacob
Everyone knows that. A few coworkers gather everyday at lunch and go over their own. They think it’s hilarious, and I eavesdroppingly agree. One girl ceremoniously opens the Daily News and divvies out star-driven prophesies to eager smiles as the group eat their sandwiches. They’re ridiculous, and you can hear the laughter echoes off the windows as their future’s unravel.
So what am I doing checking my own horoscope? Why am I actually reading about the moon’s orbit late into the month of May, or how a Gemini handles stress? Even worse, why am I taking a faceless astrologer’s opinion so seriously on my star sign compatibility with a Libra? I find myself reading these horoscopes and rolling my eyes, yet I keep reading. I’ve also taken read and re-read my Myers-Briggs personality (I’m a classic ENFP) and held onto my fortune cookie philosophy today.
I blame the move. The stressful job. I blame the Libra. And the fact that I can’t handle change, so I am grasping at straws and avoiding wrapping my plates in newspaper.
There’s no horoscope in the world that will say what I want. Until then, I’ll listen to the lunch-time snickers and cross my fingers about the move, the change, the stars. It’s not like I can see them in this city anyway.
No one questions a cute white girl drinking out of a smallish glass jar on the subway. People assume a chic water bottle, not some lady swilling straight vodka on the R train.
It is much easier to be a woman sometimes. Especially if you have a great chest.
A club sandwich felt better than a cheeseburger when I ordered it for lunch today. A nice sandwich on bread sounds healthier, too. But a club sandwich is just a trussed up BLT. Throw some turkey on a bacon, lettuce, tomato and you’ve got yourself a BLT with gusto. Take that, burger. Sucka.
The battle of the frozen yogurt has no clear winner. Move over Columbo and TCBY. The new breed of yogurt desserts feature low-cal, no-fat fruity options that drones line up for by the dozens. Who would wait in line for a $6 cup of tasteless yogurt? A lot of people. This isn’t news to anyone. Most New York women have tasted Pinkberry and have an opinion. My friend Michelle swears by Berry Wild. Me? Well, up until three minutes ago I liked to snack on Yolato. That is, until I saw this music video:
Subway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
