Sweet Dreams are Made of Cheese

Most "New Yorkers" fall asleep if they are still for over 120 seconds. It is not uncommon to see someone miss his stop on the subway because he fell asleep. And he was standing. One time I kept doing the head-bobbing-almost-snore-drool-wake-up-every-stop thing when this woman standing over me leaned down, "What is your stop?" I told her. "I'll wake you up when we get there, Dear." And she did. So very thoughtful. Just what I needed.

Paying it forward, I once saw this woman get on the train in very tall, four-inch stilettos. She looked great. And she looked to be in a little bit of pain. We were at Columbus Circle. I know she had to be hurting as she probably walked a good long block or two from the plastic surgeon's. Typical, beautiful, Fifth Avenue Barbie. So interesting to watch and think on what it must be like to live a life of philanthropy, the Hamptons and the perfect dinner reservation every evening. I'd last about three days.

I've been intrigued by this life style since my first trip to the Hamptons with a friend from work who brought me to her rented Summer home as a guest. She instructed me on what to wear, how to do my make-up and claimed she wouldn't speak to me if I talked about where we met. I was a lowly admin. To her I was charity work. To me, I was getting a free ride to another planet. I remember that I learned a lot about myself that weekend. I remembered that I really liked being me. I didn't know who else to be... I couldn't pull a chameleon... I was not familiar with the culture, much less the species. I remember good cheese.

What I experienced was Less Than Zero meets The Great Gatsby meets American Psycho (lots of Easton-Ellis). No exaggeration. Money, drugs, grandeur. Many people pretending to be something they weren't... happy. The depression that drills through your soul from seeing this... even for a weekend. I think I'm still trying to fill it. That is permanent damage stuff. These folks are starving.

That Monday she came by my desk...it was the first time I'd seen her since the Friday night of my arrival... she flipped her perfect blonde hair and with a huge, sexy smile asked if I'd enjoyed myself. I said, "it was alright". Clearly not the response she was looking for. Her face fell and she carefully asked me why. I paused. I tried to look as grateful as possible for the strange abandonment on planet Hamptonland but instead I looked her right in the eye and told her I felt sorry for her and I was so glad I didn't have to do that every weekend like she does.

I wasn't sure if she would slap me or cry or act like she didn't hear me. I don't think she was used to honesty from her supposed sycophants. She kind of did all three and said something flippant about being popular.

A week later she asked me if I was interested in helping her edit her book. First of all, on paper she was a Real Estate Agent. Second, I don't mean this to sound cruel...but I had no idea she was capable of writing more than would fit on her blackberry screen. I thought maybe it would be about her little dog she sometimes carried in her purse. Third, I thought perhaps she was testing me but I said, "Sure!" anyway.

It was a real book. You go girl.

It was a strange mess of a thing...a stream-of-consciousness biography that went on and on for twenty-plus chapters. Basically a 'true' adventure story about a woman trapped in a modern-day opium den for a month. She was trying to reach out. The book was basically about how bad her skin looked once she was rescued from the lare. Skin-deep is only affected so far I suppose. It took me right back to that little pin-prick hole that had burrowed into my heart that Hamptonian weekend. I realized I was feeling that pain for her and all the others like her. All of us like her...

I look up at disgruntled-Barbie-who-couldn't-get-a-cab-pretending-she-was-anywhere-
other-than-the-Subway and ask her if she wants my seat. She needs help. Her feet are clearly killing her and any minute someone might say the wrong thing and she'll ooze out her insecurities all over them. I've done it before in the name of fashion. I was helping out a fellow slave. Her eyes pierced, her eyebrows made a wrinkle-less 'V' over her perfect nose and she spat, "WHY?! Do I look THAT old??!!!" I pointed at her shoes and tried to explain I was a fellow footwear sadist but I could not be heard over the percussion of sighs, eye rolling and shopping bags exchanging hands. She couldn't and wouldn't let herself be helped. Auto-defense.

I observe "New Yorkers" do this in many ways. Is it because we are here? Is it because only a certain type of person lives here? We love a challenge... finding quiet sanity... we can't stop for more than a moment or might actually have to be with ourselves... then who will we wear the shoes for?

I remember waking up last night to a woman's shrieking voice, "Kaaaathyyyy...blah blah...I didn't mean it!!!... blah blah... No!!! Come on!!! It waaaasss fuuunnnnyyyy!...blah blah...STREET!" I heard tires squeal. I jumped up, looked out the window at nothing and looked at the clock on the dresser: 4:04am. I pictured Kathy being dramatically held back by her friend. Perhaps a Barbie stiletto fell off in the street like Cinderella's on the palace steps. She could have died in the name of Prada. Hope Kaaaathyyy was ok. I needed sleep. Horizontal sleep.