I am nothing if not an explorer.
I am also nothing if not a big sissy about the cold.
The combination of these two things has rendered me extraordinarily cranky about wearing a coat in MAY. Today is MAY 19, people. I have been wearing a coat since November. (Well, that’s not entirely true because I was practically seconded to a client in California for most of the fall…but you get the point).
The point is: I’m sick of the cold.
I have a meeting on Sixth Ave later today, so this morning, I thought, Gee maybe I’ll see if these tunnels under GCT really DO go all the way to Rockefeller Center! That way, I can avoid having to go outside!
I wandered the Northwest Passage, forging a path through the Arctic wilds of Park Avenue above–a latter day intrepid. My heels clicked on the terrazzo floors like oars hitting ice floes on a frozen sea. I was going to find a way! I was going to stay warm and dry!
After about 20 minutes of wandering the hallways under the street, lost like a little puppy, a police officer found me.
“Can I help you?”
I was no child, sticky-faced with ice-cream and tears; no kid who’d lost her mommy. I was expensive suit-clad; bundled in a Burberry trench and trying to find my way up to the street. Trying to stay warm and dry while doing so. I knew how to get to Park Ave. I had just gotten greedy and had wanted to reach the very edges of the West Side and stay warm, dry while doing it.
The police officer laughed at me, pointed me back to 45th and Park, like he was righting a 5 year old back towards a pinata.
And indeed, it did feel like I was going back to the papier mache donkey. But like I was the object meant to take another hit. Another day; another whack.
I thanked the officer, insincerely, and I click-clacked my way back to the familiar exit; speckled floors slick beneath me; familiar territory coming into view; cool air rushing into the tunnel from the street above.