It’s after one in the morning. I need to wake up around 6:30 to get uptown for a shoot. Then I’ve got to get to Battery park to meet another producer for a taped segment. Somewhere in between I need to find time to track down permit from the city’s parks office. I also need to buy stockings, as it’s going to be forty degrees and I have no clear ones for my black dress. It’s going to be a problem. I won’t be able to catch a cab.
It’s after one in the morning and I’m listening to some near-orgasm song a friend sent to me that sounds like Phil Collins in a soft core porn. I’m typing coy remarks and chipping my nail polish on my keyboard. I’m trying on hats and forgoing my normal one in the morning snack to not look disgusting in said dress.
It’s after one, almost one thirty in the moning. There’s a party tomorrow night uptown. I have to look not-ugly. In New York, a city with ten million women, it takes a lot of effort to look not-ugly. It also takes a lot of effort to get out of bed to get you and your editor to the morning news.