If I wasn’t a grown up, I would have cried. (But I’m no wuss.)

The weekend came and went in a flash, and you would think I was partying hard.  Ha!  Oh, those days are over.  You won’t see me stumbling in at 6 a.m. anymore, just 3 a.m.-ish because I know better.

These days, it’s all about the:

  • Meeting one friend or a group of friends for a drink or two (or three or four) over appetizers or tapas within the confines of a civilized establishment and not some basement “dive” where the entrance is the exit;
  • Meeting friends (and your professional networks) for tea or coffee to discuss “business” and gossiping about the latest scandal relating to an industry colleague or company;
  • Meeting friends for dinner where the ambience is a bit more mature (but still not for your parents — Oh God, no! — we’re old but not that old);
  • Listening to music over cocktails in a comfortable lounge, where you can still have a conversation without screaming at the top of your lungs, resulting in laryngitis so that when you walk into the office on Monday morning, everybody knows you were obviously out over the weekend (no, not everyone you work with needs to know your business, and laryngitis is often a dead give-away).

On the rare occasion when you get an invitation to do something different, you do it because seriously, how many lounges can you go to and how many sushi-Thai-Indian-tapas-fusion dinners can you have?  So, out I stepped on Saturday evening to Madison Square Garden to the international USA Track & Field competition.  It was great — sky box seats (’cause that’s how I roll), drinks, food and a really nice group of people.  It was an opportunity to see the stars of tomorrow (from local high schools), and stars of today — some of whom are heading to this year’s summer Olympics in London.

Okay, the above was a nice bit of information, but the following is much more important, especially for the ladies reading this post:

On my feet:  One of my newest pair of platform heels — what I call, “stiletto fierceness” (#stilettofierceness — Yes, I created that Twitter hashtag).

See…

Everything went well until the end of the evening when obviously my feet had expanded, thus forcing me to hobble out of the suite from the “The World’s Most Famous Arena” on to the street and into the subway.  Not only did I see stars on the track, I also saw stars after the event was all over.  If I wasn’t a grown up, I would have cried.  Actually, I was crying inside — I just didn’t let it out because I wasn’t “going out like that” — I’m no wuss.  I was going to keep smiling through suffering.

But it was like a cruel twist of fate because I had to take the l-o-n-g-e-s-t walk through Penn Station to the subway platform and wait FOR-EVER for a train.  As if it couldn’t get any worse, once I arrived at Grand Central Terminal, I realized my commuter train was leaving in 10 minutes.  Aw, %@#!  Are you kidding me?!  I had to break out in to a light jog from the Shuttle — don’t get me started– to make it to my track on time.

I could not have taken my shoes off any faster when I hit my front door.  I was exhausted from the stress and delirious and thought I was on the verge of madness.  My feet were on fire.  My head hurt (and not because of the four vodka tonics) — actually, my whole body hurt.

The end result…

Ridiculous.  Just ridiculous.

I know you’re asking the question, “Was it worth it?”

Oh yeah, it was worth it.  Totally.  I just have to “work” them in some more, and they will be the perfect Saturday night stomping shoes.

(Obviously, 48 hours later, I’m no longer dizzy, the swelling has gone down, the blisters are not as puffy, the burning sensation from the soles of my feet have subsided, and I’m completely clear in my thinking.)

I am NOT your ‘baby’. I’m Warning You: Say those words at your own risk.

I’m walking to work yesterday morning, it’s cold and rainy (I shouldn’t complain; it is winter, after all), and I’m all bundled up, umbrella overhead, and doing the “Manhattan Walk” —  Look straight ahead, don’t make eye contact and stride with purpose — no B.S.

Note:  I don’t care if someone from the male persuasion is offended about the content in the paragraphs below.  If you’re offended, you’re not a true gentleman, and if you have a grandmother, mother, sister, aunt, niece, or daughter, I don’t and won’t understand where you’re coming from.  Anyway, this is my space — I’ll do what I want, so here goes:

When you get to a certain age as a female, you refuse to put up with nonsense.  Even when you’re feeling like you’re a supermodel and “workin’ it”, covered in a down coat in winter or rockin’ your jeans, heels and a boho-chic top in the middle of the summer, the last thing you want is a man making lewd, crude, inappropriate, or obnoxious comments.  I’ve been embarrassed enough times in front of strangers, co-workers, including superiors, industry colleagues — and yes, this irritates and infuriates me to no end — in front of people of a different race (mortifying).  I sigh, shake my head and/or roll my eyes and think, “Oh God, really?  Really?”

So, yesterday, a young man (sorry, I’m not looking to babysit or be someone’s mother), looking like he needed to mind his own business and do what he was doing, which was working (he was making deliveries), passed me on the busy sidewalk and decides to let me know and whoever was around, obviously, that I was the object of his affection for which I should be eternally grateful — and what made me snap was the word ‘baby’.  My response was quick, New York-style.  I probably spewed a response out so fast it gave him whiplash.

Pissed.  Me.  Off.

Gentlemen, let’s get this straight:  I am NOT your ‘baby’, and just so you know, there’s a time, place and tone for everything.  I may feel like a hot chica occasionally (yes, occasionally — we all can’t be fabulous in mind, body and spirit every minute of every day), and I may appear approachable in your confused mind, but don’t get things twisted.  I am not your “’round-the-way girl”.  I left high school a long time ago, and even then, I didn’t appreciate such comments.

Is it just me, ladies, do these comments rub you the wrong way too?  I’m not trying to wave the Flag of Feminism, but there’s a line when it is complete disrespect.

And gentlemen, when is it acceptable behavior to be so expressive to women on the street — especially women who you can clearly tell (I don’t know how you can’t tell) wouldn’t be the least bit interested in you or your behavior?  It isn’t flattering (at least to me), and frankly, didn’t your mother raise you better than that?

—————————————————

P.S.  I am also not your ‘sista’ or ‘Mami’ — unless you’re Ricky Martin, the sweet and cheeky old salesman at the Essex Street Market on the Lower East Side or a close friend, you are not allowed to call me that either.

P.P.S.  Obviously, I’m not the only female out there that is completely offended by slimy cat-calling.  Adventures of the Mischief Machine doesn’t like it either, and neither does Equal Writes and Are We Feminists?