It’s no secret the northeast got a lot of snow over the weekend. If you saw the panic on Friday before it started you would have thought the world was ending.
Supermarket shelves were stripped clean. It was like the Cuban Missile Crisis, just without the missiles. I kinda felt left out when I checked my fridge and only found film and mustard. I ended up going to Duane Reade for canned goods, since that’s all they had left, along with Fritos and Coors Light.
Nothing but the best for my bomb shelter.
The next morning, I was determined to go out despite three feet of snow. Felix the doorman cautioned me, but off I still went, in search of coffee.
As I tooled down Lex in my Teddy Roosevelt San Juan Hill boots, crossing 86th, I fell headfirst into a snow bank…a prat fall at its best…or worst, depending how you looked at it. A doorman from another building dashed out, grabbed me by my hind legs like a steer, putting me back, right side up. It had a Marx Brothers feeling to it, and as I wrote to my friend Kate, I think I run on batteries because I just kept going. Why should an unplanned headstand slow a girl down, especially when caffeine is involved.
When I made it to Hot & Crusty, the only place open and caught myself in the mirror, I jumped, having no idea I looked like a very large sugar cookie.
How’s that for a fashion statement?