One of my greatest New York pleasures is window shopping after happy hour. The heady combination of a few cheap cocktails cruising with my hemoglobin and the natural high that comes with aspirational browsing the twinkly-lit store displays is delicious. My toes feel so good, it’s as if they are imagining what it would be like to settle down in those emerald velvet ballet flats. And while the alcohol inhibits income bemoaning, the plate glass inhibits my hand-to-wallet coordination. It’s pure delight. It’s all fun and games.
Until someone gets hurt.
More specifically, me.
I leaned in a little too close to peer at a very ornate bath caddy –one of those baskets that extends across the tub to hold the razors and scented scrubs and TV dinners of people with bathtubs big enough to accommodate a whole person. I was looking because I’ve always thought those things were silly. I ended up looking pretty silly myself, all watery and a little purple between the eyes after the bridge of my nose – the crooked bump that I hate – made direct and aggressive contact with the very plate glass meant to protect me from the merchandise.
For the record, tearing up after a nose injury doesn’t count as crying. It’s an innate physiological reflex response to pain in the nose, which is served by the same cranial nerve as the eyes. I’m not purple anymore, just a little tender, so I don’t think my nose is broken. I guess I can’t use my window shopping accident as an excuse for re-constructive surgery.
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