We all have those days, when we leave home feeling slightly substandard. Usually it's about the way we look, or at least, that's how it emanates. I have a friend (male) who can go through 15-20 (no exaggeration) different outfits before settling on what to wear. I can relate - I've done the same at times - but before work that's never an option. On weekday mornings I give myself half a minute, a full one at most, to choose my clothes. And today my very brown choice feels crappy.
In the station, walking through the tunnel, I see Michael Z. and his daughter. I do not believe - though it's just a hunch - that he is still a practicing Orthodox Jew, yet his daughter is dressed so incredibly yeshivish.
On the platform, I wait patiently for the next train. I'm over the clothing bit, and one thought permeates my mind: if you're wearing dark sunglasses but staring, do people know you're looking at them?
At 59th, I run into Eido J. He says hello and shakes my hand as he hurries by. After a short ride on the B train I exit at 48th, where I am greeted by a band of Cinco de Mayo applauders in traditional charro suits and sombreros. I notice an unusually strong police presence too, and one officer sends me across the street, past two mounties and slew of other cops. It turns out that Barbara Bush is in NBC studios.
Just before crossing Park Avenue, I hear someone calling my name from behind. It's Lovey E. in jogging clothes, sneakers, and her trademark giant backpack. She walks to work and dresses sporty for the occasion, changing into something more business-appropriate when she gets to the office. We chat and catch up for a bit, and agree to meet up for lunch sometime soon.
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