Dear Diary:
I was recently spending my Sunday morning trudging along the beat-up pavement of 34th and Sixth, idolizing pastel-print cottons hugging porcelain mannequins, daringly dressed for spring.
When cavorting in that part of town, it’s important that I pay attention to the sharp edges of overstuffed Macy’s shopping bags galloping my way and sashay around them like a running back aiming to score a winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Except here, in Herald Square, I am moving to avoid the black-and-blue marks shopping bags can leave on my thighs when they slap me leg-on.
While I was doing the Argentine tango around a family of tourists weighed down by shopping bags, a lady extended her right arm out to point to an “I Love NYC†magnet hanging in the window of a Duane Reade and, instead, punched me straight in the nose.
The discomfort of the oozing pain that suddenly overcame my face, and the drips of blood that began to stain the supportive pavement, were all silenced when the lady looked me in the eyes, shrugged her shoulders and delightfully walked away.
New York, you’re adorably rough sometimes.
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