I love early morning strolls through downtown. Most of the City is still asleep, with no intention of waking before noon, and I can frolic, a.k.a. pull a Gene Kelly in “Singin’ in the Rain,” and go virtually unnoticed. It’s the ideal time to put on my Adele playlist and simply glide through the tree lined streets of Nolita.
It’s also the perfect time to take care of my household needs without contending with rowdy and impatient New Yorkers. Simply put, this is my time. I look forward to these momentary silences and am greatly perturbed by those who dare to interrupt them.
This may explain my strong visceral response to this morning’s interruption. On route back from caffeinating, I stopped in at my local Duane Reade. While attempting to track down Tom’s Organic toothpaste (insert judgment here), I heard a familiar voice say, “Is that you, Yaffa?”
It was the Doctor; the ex who broke up with me in a very memorable email. Beside the Doctor was his now fiancee, who seemed more in love with the idea that she is wedding a surgeon than the man behind the scrubs. She whispered, “Who’s Yaffa?”
Curious as to how he would reply, I made no effort to answer the question for him. His answer, “She’s a serial bridesmaid who I met last summer.” Turning to me, he then asked, “So what number wedding are we up to now?”
His fiancee jokingly remarked, “Well maybe she could be a stand in at ours.” Not even remotely amused, I waved my iced cappuccino in both of their faces and stated, “I really must be off. I have coffee shops to attend to and criminals to prosecute.”
As I bid the two lovebirds adieu, I could not help but fume. Of all the Duane Reades in all the City, they had to walk into mine. And, as per the Doctor’s very special talent, mock my Orthodox lifestyle. Also, did I mention they disrupted my Sunday morning quiet time?
The walk back to my apartment was less than idyllic. In place of listening to Adele, I felt compelled to turn to angry rock chick music (i.e. Alanis Morisette), and I’m not going to lie, I did a little angry rock chick diddy. Even the early rising hipsters gave me a round of applause.
When I arrived home, I realized that my two roommates were nowhere in sight. I had the apartment to myself (a recurring theme, as of late), and determined it was time to embrace my inner Aretha. Blasting “Respect” from my iHome speakers, I engaged in a spontaneous karaoke session. And, ladies and gents, it was therapeutic. All my anger and all my frustration was carefully orchestrated toward my living room window– rather than the individuals who sparked it.
I succeeded in anger management and determined that my next (and perhaps first) big capitalist venture will be to create an anger management clinic, in which the primary therapy employed is non-stop karaoke. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, Aretha and her fellow Motown mates will be heard throughout the rehabilitation center.