Out of the Ordinary

Chapter 1

There are days (I've had my share of them) that pass in a crazy whirlwind of wrongness. You know the ones - you wake up and stub your toe before anything else, or spill some coffee down your favorite blouse, or wind up face-first into a city garbage can chock-full of foul-smelling trash that you never, ever thought about beyond tossing your cardboard coffee cup into (or maybe that's just me). Then you come home, after a long day of classes and/or work, and just crash, the exhaustion of your very wrong day settling into your bones like an ache. And the hope, no, the need for tomorrow to be better like a flicker of light blinking from the small wick of your very burnt candle.

Now that I've gotten all melodramatic and metaphorical, I can say that today was not that kind of day. In fact, it was the complete opposite -- a one hundred and eighty degrees opposite kind of day. For one thing, it was the first day of my summer, and as a gift to myself for finishing another semester of challenging, thought-provoking readings and papers for my English Literature major, I wore my favorite summer dress - a flowy blue thing, with pretty black flowers on it - and made myself pancakes in the communal kitchen of my dorm. I didn't have to move out for another two days, and I figured, may as well make use of that damn kitchen once before the semester ends.

As another treat to myself, I took a spin around part of Central Park. The sun was warm on my neck as I walked, taking in the sight of people sitting on benches, the grass, anywhere, really - some reading, others chatting, others picking at food they had brought for a picnic. And on the Great Lawn, the sprawling expanse of green grass that was smack in the middle of Manhattan's largest park, I found people doing much of the same. Some were laughing whilst soaking up the ultraviolet rays, others were tossing Frisbees for their dogs, who were running after the Frisbees, attacking their humans with long slobbery tongues, and stopping to pee when they caught a break in the action.

It was, for all intents and purposes, an ordinary day in Manhattan. The dull whooshing sounds of cars zipping through the streets and more than occasional honks filled the open air of the park, which was also pierced with peals of laughter and shouts of joy from the other people enjoying the day. But to me, it all read freedom, the freedom that we all experience after that last exam, on the first morning of summer. The kind of freedom that bursts with potential and possibility, and fills your heart with a swelling need to do something, anything with this time. Something that will be rewarding and special and make you feel productive. Something that you've always wanted to do, but never had the time or energy to get done. Something that would make you feel alive.

The freedom was overwhelming in the best way - until I was feeling a little too free and realized the back of my skirt had blown up with a gust of wind, revealing to all park-goers behind me my very blue and very cotton panties - the ones that screamed "it's-that-time-of-the-month." With my hands holding the skirt down again, flush against the back of my legs, I gave a cursory glance behind me, and was relieved to find that no one appeared to have noticed. Before I could analyze their faces further, and find the one who did notice, I spun and walked toward the exit of the park on the West Side, determined to find a coffee shop and start the book I had been dying to read since its release in the previous fall - when I still had too much schoolwork and readings for class to even consider reading anything for pleasure.

Being in New York, finding a coffee shop was like stumbling across a rat in the subway - it happened eventually, and eventually usually didn't take long. Although, admittedly the latter is much more disturbing, my point is that both are bound to happen when roaming around the city. So it didn't take long for me to make my way into a shop just a couple of blocks from the park. I was met with the warm, comforting smell of coffee - the aroma bringing about memories of my father carrying my mother a cup in the mornings while she was still in bed, and I was cuddled up next to her. Despite not liking the taste at the time, the smell had always been a comfort. It was something I woke up expecting, and let's face it, coffee always smells good, even if you're a five year old who doesn't like the bitter taste.