Listen. I can’t be expected to do everything around here, you know? I am only one woman. Or two-thirds of one, given my petiteness. I am only one woman with two hands. (No tengo mil manos!) One woman with one head. One woman with a measly 24 hours in her day. And given that a New York minute is faster than any other, that means my hours fly by faster than most of yours. Unless, of course, you also have the great fortune of living in New York, and thus you know what I mean. Tempis fugit or something. Or fuck it. Or something.
Oh, whatever.
So I am one petite woman with a few paltry hours. And in those hours, I go to the gym, I pilate, I visit the Upper West Side so much that I am now both an honorary Shark and a “little sister” Jet, I cavort around the East Village, I shop, and I lunch. Plus a whole mishmash and hodgepodge of other girly goodness! And sometimes the heel of my shoe breaks off and I hold it up in one hand and coyly cover my mouth with the other as I smile for the video camera that follows me around just in case I do something worthy of a Mentos commercial.
What does this all mean, though? It means I don’t have time for you. How can I, really? Do you really expect me to want to sit here and entertain you and get you through your wretched day, stuck in your shabby office in a gray cubicle or trapped in the dingy hospital in traction or however or wherever it is you spend your days while I’m out and about giggling and pilating and doing what I would call “my thang” if I were so inclined to use slang that is probably now outdated?
Well, I’m sorry if that’s what you expect. And really, that’s very selfish of you. And because you need to learn a lesson about patience and selflessness, I’m going to deprive you of snippets of my life for several days and go about doing whatever it is that I do that keeps me away from you.