Last Friday, I was alone. I knew Kamran would be at the library all night with just over a week left before the bar exam, so I’d planned for many hours of one-on-one time with the DVR and “Criminal Minds”. But right about quittin’ time, I started feeling like I wanted to do something. I thought about how ironic it is to live in New York City and keep a blog about it and then sit home quietly eating bon-bons on a Friday night.
I thought about calling my former NYCBFF, Beth, but then I remembered she moved to San Francisco. Then I thought about calling my current NYCBFF, Ash, but then I remembered she’s trying to save money to buy a house and move somewhere even worse, Connecticut. Then I thought about calling Chantee, but then I remembered she’s busy rigging rich people’s taxes for the next two months. And on and on. I went through a mental list of each and every person I know in NYC and found a reason not to call any of them. And I felt like if I was just going to sit around on my couch, I might as well be sitting on a couch with my BBFF back in Ohio.
But just then, my NYCBFF IMed me and said she’s now a bazillionaire, doesn’t need to save all of her money anymore, and wanted to hang out! So I went to her luxuriously large apartment in Queens, and we got into her brand new CR-V, and her husband drove us to The Cheesecake Factory. Which was in a mall. In Long Island. Full of people in not just Juicy Couture velour tracksuit bottoms, which Ash says is okay, but the whole tracksuit.
It was the very un-NYC-est thing we could do and also the un-suckiest.
