I just started temping to make a little moo-la to pay for my habits (such as, but not limited to: grocery shopping, bar hopping, online shopping, bookstore browsing...and buying..) at a company with a swanky 5th avenue address. I mean, seriously, on my lunch break I window shop Harry Winston and dream of someday. Ha.
Anywhoo, while doing some worky at work, I thought about what I was going to do this weekend. And what I was going to do when I got home. And what I was going to eat next. As you all know, I'm in the middle of reading American Psycho, and it's getting a little, er...intense, shall we say. Like, I'm pretty much afraid of every handsome Wall-Streeter I see. So I was in the mood for something a bit fluffier, no matter how bad the writing, something a la Something Borrowed. Enter my quest to read The Devil Wears Prada.
Dinand library was big), wearing my work suit and pumps. They checked my bag for contraband (none...just my copy of American Psycho..hehe) and I proceeded to wander...and wander...for 20 minutes. No map, no indication of where ANYTHING in the library was. Finally, I swallowed my pride and approached a security guard.
"Um, excuse me. This is going to sound really dumb, but are there, like, books here? Novels?" I could feel my face reddening. Luckily, he was very understanding.
"Well, there are branches all over the city. This one is really only for reference books, and nothing can be taken out. Across the street and down a block, there's the Midtown Manhattan branch, where you can take out books."
I thanked the kindly security guard and got on my way. I arrived at the Midtown branch at the same time as about three homeless people, including a lady with a bright purple wig. No sweat, I can see the books. Bad free literature, here I come! But, like everything else in my life, this was a no-go. I couldn't find Devil in the literature stacks, and so I ran over to a trusty computer. There were two copies of the novel in circulation in the New York Public Library system: one in the Bronx, and one in reference at the 42nd street main reading room. Where I had just been. WTF.
So now I was cranky. I walked back 10 blocks to my bus stop, and huffily got on the bus when, of course, my metro card ran out of money. The bus driver took pity on me, probably because I looked like I was about to cry, and let me get on anyway. And up we sped to 79th and Madison, where I hopped off to catch the crosstown bus to the far east side (I'm talking past York Ave, down by the river). But this driver was not so benevolent. I had some money ready to go, but apparently in NYC you can't use dollar bills to get on the bus. Only quarters (that's what they mean when they say exact change...womp womp) or metro cards. Now, at this point, I had walked about 20 blocks round trip after a full day in 4 inch heels and I hadn't eaten since noon. I was hungry and tired and hated all the honking and the noise and just wanted to be back at my little house on the Vineyard doing crossword puzzles in my skivvies on my bed.
"So I'll just walk then," I said to the bus driver (who, rightfully so, didn't give a shit) as I rapidly disintegrated to same ability to control my emotions as a 12-year old and stomped off the bus. I seriously wanted to cry, or call my mom, but that would make me want to cry even more, and I didn't want to be an emotional wreck on the street.
Thankfully, I had simply been in my head too much during the day (quiet office=LOTS of time to think), and I felt much perkier once I'd changed into some yoga pants and had a few crackers with peanut butter and strawberry jelly. Roomie came home and we decided to order Chinese and watch bad TV. Someday I'll get the libraries down pat, though I think I'll stick to the one in my neighborhood from now on.