Last week I went to get my hair blown out at my local salon. I forgot my typical business books, magazines, and how to start a lingerie business for dummies guides and was forced to read the supplied beauty rags. I was too slow and unwilling to fight for a withered Glamour from 2006, so I took the only mag left: NY magazine, the wedding edition. I flipped through the pictures of couples getting married at the Central Park Zoo, the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, the Natural History Museum. One couple even had the balls to shut down the meat packing district so they could wed on its cobble stone streets.
It was the black and white pics on those cobble stone streets that did it. I started to cry. Hysterically. Under the dryer.
Perhaps this happens all the time to NY women or maybe the ladies in the salon decided to take pity on me. Everyone kindly ignored me except for the owner of the establishment, who brought me a tissue, patted me gently on the shoulder and told me I had 10 more minutes until I was dry.
Somedays I cant decide if this business is the reason I am alone or the thing that keeps me from feeling lonely. It takes up a lot of space.
Sometimes I can't remember if this is really my dream or if it is just the backup plan to a dream defferred. The emotional equivalent of adding something to a "to do" list just so I can have something to check off.
Today I am tired. But everyday cant be rainbows and puppies.
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