I get dressed with extra care this morning. Not for any
particular reason. Just feel like it. You know those days when you put in a
little bit more time just because? Peruse Net-a-Porter’s styling suggestions. Am
I in a skinny pants with loose top and sky-high heels mood or more of a maxi
dress and flat Grecian sandals mood? Hmm, what is the weather like today? Is
today going to be a mussed-up dry-shampooed wavy hair day or is it going to be
a freshly-washed straightish-but-with-volume hair day?? Pink blush or coral
blush?? Decisions, decisions. It’s not easy trying hard to not look like a
tryhard, my friends, not easy at all.
9:15 am comes and goes. 9:20. 9:35 and I’m still not ready.
I couldn’t seem to move this morning from the 5-inch radius on my bed that my
single fan’s cool air touches. If you moved half an inch to either side, you
were confronted with such a hot, sticky humidity that the prospect of getting
out of bed and getting ready seemed nearly impossible. Finally, at 9:45, I am
out the door. I walk down my windy, cobblestone street with that “omg, I’m
going to get into trouble” nervousness you feel when you’re running late (I’ve
been a conformist who is scared of authority my whole life, people). I
essentially feel that nervousness every moment of every single day since I am
always running late. I would like to take this moment to clear my name though –
here and now. I run late not because I am one of those prima donnas who takes so
long to get ready, but more because I don’t start
getting ready until it’s very late. I bargain with myself and (successfully) convince myself
that I can watch 20 more minutes of an episode and I’ll just get ready in 3
minutes. Or I can extend my nap for another 15 minutes if I think up my outfit
while I am still lying in bed. All of these methods usually fail and I end up
perpetually late (if you’re friends with me, please tell me we are meeting 15
minutes before we actually are). Some people might take this to mean that I
suffer from a condition called delusion. Instead, I call it being a dreamer. I like to set “reach the stars”,
unrealistic goals for myself as a motivational tool – “I CAN eat a dozen
cupcakes in one sitting”, “I WILL run for 20 minutes straight”, “I CAN grow two
inches if I drink 1 gallon of milk everyday” (okay this one was my dad – he was
very hopeful).
Anyways, I am moving my little leggies as fast as I can now.
I knew I shouldn’t have watched that extra episode last night, but I have no
self control when all the episodes from
a season of my new favorite show are available to me! I get so addicted that I
may or may not put down my diet coke with lime and lie about having to leave
post-dinner drinks early due to a “last minute call that just popped up on my
calendar” JUST so I can run home, get into my pjs, settle down on the couch,
and watch an episode! Alas, I digress.
I walk briskly, my eyes searching for all my neighborhood friendies.
The paunchy, tattooed barista from the café at the corner jokingly covers the
eyes of the other barista so as to imply that only he should get to look at me
– oh giacomo, you’re so silly (I have no idea what his name is actually…). Then
my gypsy friend – let’s call her Anamaria -
hollers “ciao principessa! sei così bella oggi!!” as she approves of my
caaj chic stylings for the day. I hand her the 2 euros that I give her every
other day (I mean c’mon guys, I’m not made of money here) to basically be my
friend. Actually, I regard the two euros as payment for services rendered – she
serves as my sounding board every morning, a barometer of sorts, to determine
how cute my outfit is that day and whether or not I get an A+ for effort.
Anamaria is going to her homeland tomorrow though, so I don’t know what I will
do for the next few weeks - the walks to work will be so uneventful. Where is
her homeland anyway?? Actually, I don’t have time to find out – focus, Kim,
focus. I bid her adieu and keep briskly moving my little leggies as fast as I
can.
If I don’t hurry, not only will I be insanely late to work,
but the bakery around the corner from the office will run out of my whole wheat
croissants!! “posso avere un brioche integrale per favore?” that is the extent
of the italian i have learned during my year in Italy, but it serves me very
well. I find that I think of whole wheat croissants as health food – like how
eating a serving of fruit or something is good for you. It’s a step up from the
donut I used to eat every morning, so I really feel that I’m growing up, my
palate becoming more sophisticated…
AH I was right – they ran out!!! No more integrale brioches,
my friends. This is going to be a sad day, I can feel it. I knew I shouldn’t
have snoozed for those extra ten minutes!!! It’s okay, keep walking. Say
Buongiorno!!! to the big friendly bodyguard (Karl Lagerfeld just cast his
bodyguard as the face of his line…I better stay on this bodyguard’s good side,
he could be the face of tomorrow) as I sheepishly and slyly try to slip into
the building. Get in the elevator – 4th floor? asks the chicly
dressed woman as she presses the button for me. Sheesh, I wish I wasn’t so
important (this is a joke) and people didn’t know me - makes getting in late
even worse!! I arrive at my desk all flustered and stressed – but I wouldn’t
have it any other way, some of us were born to live on the edge…
OK, so when is lunch?
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