Girlies

Yesterday, two friends and I drove to New York City and spent the day eating and walking and eating some more. We had fancy cocktails and were all dressed up and felt terribly sophisticated indeed (well, not really, but we were trying). We got stuck in Midtown gridlock and overpaid for parking, as every non-native New Yorker is required to do if they’re so foolish as to drive into Gotham. We talked to sanitation workers in Washington Square Park who were cleaning up after a flash-mob pillow fight, and a homeless man seeking money for a sandwich that cost $9.95 (I gave him a couple of bucks for the cause). A toddler high-fived me on the street, proving my friend’s claim that I had two super-powers: child-hypnosis (the other being parallel parking).

We were torn: should we stalk Tom Hardy in Brooklyn so I could declare my feelings, or accept the fact that we are star-crossed lovers, fated never to find happiness? (The latter.) Should we eat Italian or Thai? (Italian.) If we lived in the city, would we choose the West Side, or the East Side (West.) Could we ever buy designer clothes at full prices and avoid feeling morally bankrupt? (No.)

The three of us who’d driven in together spent a total of 13 hours together. I don’t think there was more than 5 seconds of silence. Proof of genuine friendship, methinks: you never run out of things to say.

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