The plan was simple: take a long-anticipated trip to NYC with a girlfriend. The goals were simple too:
Soak in the vibrancy of NYC
Eat good food
See a show
Candidly, I also went to NYC with a secondary goal: I wanted look non-touristy while accomplishing my first tier goals. I put together my outfits– and they were not stunning by any means, but they also weren’t culottes paired with solid white Reeboks and a Hard Rock Cafe tee-shirt.
We all know that the dead give-away for any tourist is shoes– tennis shoes, comfortable sandals, or anything with a large, cushiony rubber sole. I was determined not to be quite so identifiable. The only reason I packed my running shoes is because I fantasized about running along the Hudson River (which never happened, because sleeping in and early morning runs do not share space in my Venn diagram). I planned to stride through NYC in my little Tory Burch flats– up and down Broadway and through each and every neighborhood from our hotel (in Mid-Town) to our brunch spots (in the Village).
“Hey, look at me, NYC, I am one of you. I want, in the three seconds of time that I pass through your life, you to think I am from here. Or around here. Or at least from the Mid-Altantic states.”
Was it vain? Oh hell yes.
Did it work? Probably not, considering I had my non-matching purse slung sideways across my body, and I still have my Texas twang all these years later. Plus, I spent half my time snapping pictures (like all natives) and the other half standing in line for half-priced tickets to Broadway shows (doesn’t Woody Allen spend his weekends doing that too?). I bet I only saw about 45 native New Yorkers, and I bet none of them thought twice about me or my stupid little flats.
I didn’t have to consult the Old Testament to see what God thinks about vanity. I only had to check my ass, which was where God smote me for my vanity. My left glute started hurting the day I got back from my walk-a-thon-in-sh*tty-shoes. I stood up from playing with Simon and there was a slight twinge. I tried to shake it off. It didn’t work. Everyday it got a little worse, but I tried my own version of sports medicine: denial. I ignored it and proceeded to run, spin and run some more on my hurt booty. By this week, I could hardly walk. Wednesday night, I literally had to drop Simon in his crib because bending over so taxed my glutes. He cried. I cried.
So I went to the physical therapist. “Please fix my ass,” I requested humbly. Within two minutes of watching me stand, he deduced that I pulled my left glute. The prescription: a minimum two weeks of rest. To a runner and someone who may, on occasion, use exercise to deal with unpleasant feelings, taking two weeks off feels like a sentence to Abu Ghraib. Let me be clear, there is a part of me that would rather be stripped, blindfolded and made to lie at the bottom of a human pyramid than to forego exercise for two weeks.
That’s just sick.
Guess what? The therapist thinks that perambulating around NYC in over-priced ballet flats may have caused my butt to break. My soul shrunk a few sizes hearing that. It’s not like I took my platform sandals with me. They weren’t flip flops, for God’s sake. Why can’t a girl have a little taste of glamor on her once-in-a-lifetime trip? And now I can’t exercise? SAY IT AIN’T SO.
What’s vanity done you? Have you lost your exercise privileges because of vanity? How did you survive?