It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I entered the blogworld. And I’m already exhausted from thinking about themes and posts, comments and stat pages, popularity and purpose. It’s all so exhilarating, yet completely disheartening at the same time.
Let’s just step back, take a deep breath, and think about morning routines.
This morning, I walked out of the subway and was extremely happy that the escalator was working so that I could practice my free-flowing walk on and off the moving staircase like any other city-dweller. I’m actually not quite there yet; I still have to look down when transferring onto the regular sidewalk. Thank goodness I do, since had I not been looking down, I would never have noticed the packet of English Breakfast tea (which I at first thought was a condom wrapper, which totally would have changed my morning) resting on the concrete and, two feet (or shall I say two thirds of a meter?) from that, the empty box of shortbread cookies. I’m not one for littering, but I knew that this trash was not placed on the sidewalk by an environmental menace. Certainly, an Englishman (not woman) unknowingly dropped the remnants of his breakfast out of his satchel as he dashed off the Red-Line in a hurry to make it to American Girl Place by 9:00 to buy a She-Looks-Like-Me doll for his seven-year-old daughter who is struggling to navigate through the halls of American culture after hopping across the pond to accommodate her father’s most recent intellectual venture.
I hoped that the poor fellow was able to find the doll and wondered if they made dolls with blonde hair and brown eyes. Perhaps the daughter and I share the same coloring. I then registered the fact that it was much warmer outside than I’d expected. I wished I had put on my sunglasses. And then I started my morning ritual of staring at myself in store windows as I made the rest of my way to work (hello, this is a blog about nothing but myself so far; clearly I’m a little egocentric). I wondered how long it would be until any sort of pit-stain was noticeable through my periwinkle dress; I said a silent “I hate you” to the Secret Clinical Protection Anti-Perspirant. I didn’t notice that my belt was twisted in the back. I also may have passed a celebrity or a crime scene, but I was too wrapped up in wondering how people take public transportation in the middle of July without even starting to glisten, when I will probably need those oil absorbent sheets for my hairline in the beginning of February. My life is so hard.
I then swung through the doors of being an unpaid intern and am still wondering if I will ever be acquainted with the word salary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean yoga mats so that I can continue to use labor to pay for my expensive habit of working out my body and soul. Namaste.