Jane and I detrain in the West Village and head towards the Spotted Pig, a hipster bar where the fabulous gather for happy hour. This is another reason I opted for the capri pants and not the dress. Most days I struggle with my clothes, I want to wear trendy, head turning outfits, but I’m not tall or slim. So I can’t wear skinny jeans or tuck my tops into my pants like the malnourished, flat stomached, waif-like fashion models. Those bitches!
But I am plucky and do not readily accept defeat. So I funk up my outfits with unique jewelry, handbags and shoes. I am an aspiring trendy. And someday I will have enough money to liposuction the fat out of my thighs!
“I think we’re going the wrong way,” Jane says as we cut through Abingdon Square en route for West 11th Street via Hudson. “No, we’re fine. We should turn west and then south,” I reply. The West Village is trés haute and happening as evidenced by the eateries, shops and rents STARTING at $2,500.00. However, the lack of urban planning, deficiency in parking and departure from the street grid have me wondering if the City Planners back in the day were suffering from multiple personality disorder.
We turn left onto Greenwich and Jane demands, “How do you know the West Village so well?” I shrug and say, “I have friends who live here.” "What friends are these?” Jane asks. As she walks, she simultaneously changes her shoes. Lord I hope she doesn’t fall down, we won’t be able to blame cocktails this early in the night. “Ainsley and Siobhan,” I reply.
Sometimes I wonder if Jane actually listens to me or waits, hoping I say something profound or interesting. True, we’re both a bit bossy, but our relationship is evolving; only she doesn’t see it. In the beginning I was dependent on her and she took really good care of me. I will forever be grateful that she saved me from being sucked up by the City. But I’m resourceful. I bought a map, made some friends, and started living my new Manhattan life.
Once inside the Spotted Pig we order wine, find a table and drop our bags. It is in these moments I wonder how I will ever get married. Everyone woman in this bar is sinfully decadent wearing irresponsible stilettos, dresses with recklessly short hemlines, and perfectly coiffed hair. Why would any man pick me over these lovelies?
Ten minutes later, an irritated Jane pulls out her phone to text Bill and says, “Where are they?” This is rich --- she’s annoyed they’re late? She routinely keeps me waiting an average of 37 minutes! As time ticks away towards forty-five minutes tardy, we become VERY displeased with our time challenged companions. I am sure the combination of the over capacity bar crowd and the 3” heels on our feet are not helping. And yes, our foot pain is their fault. If they had arrived on time we wouldn’t be plotting foot removal with shards of wine glasses and no anesthesia.
To be cont.