I promised I would expand on my fabulous trip to New York, but since I’m still on East Coast time (don’t you just hate when people say that?), here’s one quick bedtime story.

It was Saturday night and the girls and I were ready to take on the city. I had just spent hours deciding whether to go with the more practical ensemble (turtleneck, skinny jeans and flats — hey, we were only going to bars and I have a great fear of temperatures below 60) or buck up and put on something half presentable. After my friends were like, helloooo, we’re in NEW YORK, I finally gave in and slipped into a silky dress and heels (and double leggings, of course). RowR. 

Stepping out onto the bustling sidewalk, I was pleasantly surprised. The weather was bearable and we were looking hot. This is my Sex and the City moment, I thought. We’re in New York! I totally fit in! Just then, as I tried to maneuver my way through the crowds, I felt stuck. Literally. My heel. Was stuck. My other heel. Was stuck too. Both heels were stuck. I couldn’t move. I looked down and realized I had stepped into a grate. I tried to kick one heel out, but my bare foot just swept into the open air. This was bad. As I watched my friends walk a few steps ahead of me, oblivious to my sudden crisis, I did the only thing I could think of. I screamed for help.  

They laughed, shook their heads and saved me, of course. But from then on, my New York bubble had bursted. I’m no Carrie Bradshaw. I’m just an awkward girl from Torrance. Who probably should have stuck with the flats.