woman of the streets.

Yesterday I had a big PMS craving for a cheesesteak (provolone and onions), so I took a walk to go get one. The place is a hole in the wall joint about 2 blocks away, and it was a lovely day for a stroll.

I absent-mindedly walked the 2 blocks downhill (yes, new york has hills), darting across streets as lights turned green, and grinning slightly at the cat-calls I kept getting from the bruthas. (I credit my darling pink shoes.)

When I went into the cheesesteak place, I had one of those moments that, in the movie of my life, has the sound effect of a record player coming to a screeching stop while every head in the room turns to look at me. The place was FULL of men. I was the only female in a room of 15 men...and we all knew it. Undaunted and filled with the delicious aroma of cheesey goodness, I stepped up to the counter in my pink shoes and gave my order.

While waiting, I sang along to the blaring Stone Temple Pilots on the radio and watched the silent tennis match unfolding on the silent TV. I eventually got my sandwich, all wrapped up, steaming hot, and smelling delicious, and walked out the door.

This is where the trouble started. See, I had you thinking this blog was about a cheesesteak just to keep my male audience, but really its about the every day struggle of walking the sidewalks and streets of new york city in heels. It is NOT easy.

For starters, sidewalks, when not covered with dog shit, are usually not level and often have giant cracks. Some businesses fill the cracks in front of their buildings with this rubbery goo, which is fantastic for people like me whose heels often fall IN to the cracks. Rubbery goo means I just bounce right back out, never missing a stride. UNFILLED cracks mean if you hit the crack wrong and it swallows your heel, you may take your next step minus one shoe, OR try to take your next step and go crashing to the ground minus one shoe. Either way it's a bit embarrassing.

Then there's grates. As if storm drains and steaming manhole covers aren't hard enough, there's giant subway grates all over the city, stretching 8 or 10 feet long. Women all over the city scurry to the 6 inches of concrete alongside the grates, performing some sort of a balance-beam-in-training act so as not to fall in and damage their limbs, ankles, reputations, and SHOES.

Next, there's stairs. Just this morning on my way up from the subway, the woman in front of me misplaced her balance and came leaning back at me. I envisioned a whole domino affect of pissed off commuters tumbling down the stairs, so I put my hands up and sorta shoved her back into place. But I knew immediately her error: NEVER put any weight on your heels when going up stairs. TOES people. TOES! Never lean back.

However, the most risk, and the one that nearly broke me in half yesterday, was the surprise chunks of missing pavement on the streets. ESPECIALLY at the end of winter after the plows have destroyed any stability the streets once had. Yesterday, I stumbled stepping off the sidewalk into the street. I wobbled a bit but hoped no one saw. About 10 steps later, I looked up for a second and nailed a giant hole, doing that whole airborne-clumsy-chick-in-heels dance where one ankle all but snaps off my leg, I flail my arms to regain balance, then have the obligatory laugh-at-self episode followed by the walk-it-off moment, ending with me fighting back a yelp of pain from my now mangled, swollen ankle. But the real kicker (pun intended) is when it happens ONE more time before safely across the street. At this point, you KNOW people are laughing, thinking you don't know how to walk in heels or maybe are a little drunk, and you just want to yell out "IT'S THE POT HOLE DAMMIT!" to clear your name, but it's not worth it.

So yeah. I'm a woman of the streets of new york....cheesesteaks and broken ankles baby.