I was sober on New Year’s Eve.
It wasn’t intentional, believe me, I did everything possible to try and get drunk. I brought my flask to the party I was attending, but couldn’t get it passed security. I dressed like a skank, but so was every other heffa in there. I did the Tyra walk with Oprah’s enthusiasm, but almost ate sh*t in my hooker heels.
Still sober by 11:50 p.m., I gave up and took it as a sign of how I should embrace the New Year.
And as I drove home that night passing up at least five different cars being pulled over on the side of the freeway, for once I was proud of my sobriety. There was a new year ahead of me full of opportunity and enterprise. It was time to start thinking positive and about my future.
In other words, I’m getting too old for this debauchery sh*t and if I don’t get my ass together in the next couple of years, I’m going to be living alone watching Lifetime with my cats or my AA sponsor. Tragic.
So in order to get my ass in gear, I started applying for jobs in my related field. No more hooking or doing other odd jobs with midgets, it was time for the real deal. Not too soon after applying (surprisingly) I landed an interview, in the city, for a fashion website. Perfect.
I woke up for my interview and was tempted to cancel. Honestly, why do people get up so early in the morning?
After getting ready I typed the interview location into my TomTom and headed out. A 45-minute drive later I found the street I needed to be on, located the cheapest parking garage and parked. I figured I could just walk the rest of the way. I still had twenty minutes to get to the interview.
Unfortunately, when I got to the main street the interview was on and I checked the numbers I was in the 1300s and I needed to be in the 600s.
I thought to myself, “Once I figure out in which direction I’m headed, I should be fine.”
I swooped into a little clothing shop and the lady told me I was headed in the right direction, however, she also told me that I might want to catch the bus. I told her thanks, but I was convinced I could walk it. I still had ten minutes to spare. I continued walking in my four-inch stilettos, convincing myself to remain calm and positive.
Another block down I began to realize that I was a little over dressed for downtown in the daytime. Other women had on flats, over sized sweatshirts and dragged mini luggage-on-wheels behind them. I had on skinny jeans, four-inch heels and matching purse. I could feel the male species eyes upon me.
I was now officially a walking rack-of-lamb, fresh off the grill, ready to be served with A1 and mash potatos. And that's when the inevitable happened. Not because I’m so unbelievably, ridiculously good looking, but because I was walking around downtown, looking lost, dressed like a slut.
As I walked past this rent-your-own-cheap-ass-furniture joint, there was a group of guys out in front staring, taunting and whispering to me as I walked by. Whatever. I had other things on my mind aside from sexual harassment. Like, I was going to be late and for some reason I couldn’t feel my big toe. Eventually I realized that one of the guys from in front of the store had fallen into stride with me.
“Hey there beautiful, can I talk to you for a minute?”
I looked to my left to discover a young man with his pants hanging somewhere between the lower half of his ass and his knees, a gold grill and some Sisqo colored hair. Really!? I’m not one to judge, but really?
“I’m sorry, not right now,” I said. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“Me too,” he replied. “See I’m walking with you, we can both be in a hurry.”
“Um not right now,” I said. “I really got somewhere I got to be.”
“Well then we both got somewhere to be,” he responded.
I sighed heavily, he was a persistent little f*cker.
“Sure whatever,” I said slightly under my breath. Stupid four-inch heels, I could just not walk fast enough!
“Can I get your number?” he asked.
“No I’m sorry, look I really have to get going,” I said.
“Well fine then, BITCH!” he said.
Yeah, he said it.
Suddenly not only was I late, but I was also a bitch.
And to prove it, he hawked the fattest loogie and blew it in my direction. Lucky for me with a little quick maneuvering I was able to dodge the wad. WTF!?
Did he really just spit at me?
“You’re lucky I didn’t spit on you bitch,” I heard his voice echo in the background verifying my lingering thoughts. And with that, I stuck my hand in the air and hailed a cab.
Five minutes later I arrived five minutes late to my interview. (Depending on whose watch you’re looking at). My hair was in my face, I was a little out of breath and sweaty. However, on the bright side of things I didn’t get spit on and it is still only just the beginning of 2009. I could do nothing but laugh at my little mini adventure.So I took a deep breath, put a smile on my face and stepped off the elevator…