I found myself hauling ass down East 9th. My morning had begun with time to spare, but so quickly can a simple errand turn into an excursion whereby I whip out my credit card and the salesgirl advises me that the best way to officiate a wedding is to "go rogue."
My original itinerary was solid. Before meeting Tina at MoMA at noon, I would go to Meg and drop off Darcey's dress. The zipper needed fixed and everyone had agreed that I was to wear this dress, Darcey's dress, to officiate Karen and Anna's hitchin' next Saturday. Except I decided to just buy the exact same dress because it really is a fantastic dress and there was only one left and they will never make this dress again, ever.
The whole affair proved time-consuming. Add an extra five minutes for me to gleefully imagine the moment when I informed the wedding party that I would not wear the dress I was supposed to wear. I would wear another dress. That was exactly the same. In my mind, this would be hilarious.
And then Tina texted me at 11:37 to say that she was early and already upstairs canoodling with Jasper Johns.
So I found myself hauling ass down East 9th to catch the 6 uptown. Seven girls spanned the sidewalk before me like a Red Rover championship team. I attempted to get around them, between them and breathe on the backs of their necks in hopes they could take a hint. The girls retained their human barricade formation.
I popped out my earbuds and said, "um, excuse me please."
What a fucking priceless opportunity I had just blown. I could have replied, in Swedish, "Yes, they certainly do."