It’s Friday night, and I feel all right. I’m in my room getting ready to go out. My shorts that look like a skirt but really are practical shorts are on. I’m killing it in my new top. My feet are in protective yet cute booties; just as cute as sandals and much more comfortable. Gotta have that arch support. Being a perfectionist, I stare at myself for a full 4 minutes in the mirror painting on my liquid eyeliner. It’s too darn easy to mess it up. I’ve got two types of mascara on. TWO. I’m looking, how they say, FLAWLESS.
Before I’m out the door, I grab a cute lil shoulder bag. Not so big that it gets in the way, but not so small that it holds nothing. I toss in my credit card, real ID, fake ID, school ID, metrocard, and phone.
I pause for a second and think to myself, “do you have everything? Purse, check, cards, check, phone, check. Okay, time to go.”
I speed out the door and start the walk to the subway. I descend the stairs that lead me to the muggy, unbearably hot train platform. Why have they not installed air conditioning down here, for Pete’s sake? My freshly applied makeup feels like it’s melting off and I suddenly feel like I’m in bikram yoga rather than on my way to a social gathering. “It’s okay Gabby,” I tell myself, “only two more minutes until the subway comes and you’ll be in air conditioning.” As promised by the overhead sign, the subway pulls in as I am ready to pass out from a hot flash. I grab the first seat I see and pull my bag over my lap, zipping it open to make sure that no one has robbed me in the ten minutes that I’ve been out of my apartment for. We’ve got everything, we’re golden. Going strong so far.
I jump off of the subway after roughly seven minutes and switch to another line, which means swiftly walking through another crowded underground station. This is hell, I’m sure of it. I descend another staircase that leads me to my second subway, New York’s underground metal stallion. I can feel my sweat dissipating as the cool subway air surrounds me. Sweet, cool relief. A homeless man has made his way onto my subway car and is offering newspapers to the riders. Pay what you can, the homeless need it, they are working hard, etc etc. Much as I want to hand him a five dollar bill, I can’t seem do it. My hand stays tightly on my bag on my lap, protecting the goods inside of it.
I reach my stop and head upstairs to the fresh New York air. Can we call it fresh? It’s not getting any better, I suppose. I whip out my phone and type the address of the bar we’ve been told to meet at. I turn right and walk a few feet until I realize that I’m going the wrong way. Classic. I turn around and am on my way. Still feeling **FLAWLESS.**
After ten minutes, I am at the bar with a drink in hand complementing everyone’s outfits. Within 40 minutes, we’re all either having deep life talks, dancing, or taking selfies. Why can’t the lighting in bars be a tad bit better? Without the flash you can’t see a thing. With the flash we all look like zombies. Oh well, an Instagram filter will fix that right up.
20 minutes later, we’re on our way to a friend’s apartment. We arrive at the door, ring the buzzer, and soon find ourselves trudging up five flights of stairs. DARN YOU, WALK UPS! You will be the death of us all. We walk in to find the tiny space packed with people. It’s hot. UGH. My sweaty glands can’t handle this. WHY AM I SUCH A SWEATY HUMAN?!
We stay for an an hour and a half until we all realize how hungry we are. Is it time for late night/early morning pancakes yet? Me thinks yes. We find our way to the closest diner and order about 173 pancakes. Or 13, but who’s counting, really? After slathering them with butter and syrup, we find our mouths full of pancakey delight. Nothing is better. Absolutely nothing. After downing a few more flat cakes of the gods and maybe a couple french fries (or 25), I know that it’s time for me to go. My body already isn’t happy with me and it certainly won’t be in 8 hours when I wake up. Looking forward to that already. I say my goodbyes, give drunken double kisses, tell everyone how much I love them and how much they mean to me, and am on my way. I hit the streets and stick up my hand immediately for a cab. I wish I could say that my life was like Carrie Bradshaw’s and that a cab appeared instantly, but that just isn’t how life works. I WISH. I end up walking most of the way back to my apartment, telling myself to enjoy the cool summer air even though I’m shivering a little. Good thing I have a boyfriend to let me wear his jacket! -_-
When I am near my apartment apartment, I get a text from a friend inviting me over. They live close by, so why not? I somehow manage to run up the stairs to their apartment, banging on the door until it’s opened. I tumble in, laughing and smiling. The thought of walking back to my apartment is horrifying at this point, so I decide to stay the night.
I wake up in the morning with a throbbing head. That’s a sign of a good night, right? Sure. At this moment, all I want to do is go back to my own apartment. I put myself together and am out the door, desperate for my own bed and a glass of water. When I arrive home, I collapse into bed and sleep for another couple of hours. Upon awaking, I review the night in my mind. Good, it was good. I want to text my friends to ask them if they got home okay and reach my hand across my bed to the bedside table. Phone isn’t there. Must be in the kitchen. I crawl out of bed and walk to the kitchen, eyes halfway open, searching for my cellular. No where to be found. Where was it last? In my bag, right? I look around the apartment for my bag. Not here either. Hmmm…peculiar.
While at first I do not panic, distress soon settles in. My credit card, real ID, fake ID, school ID, metrocard, and phone. NO. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN. WHAT IS THIS LIFE. NO. I call my friend and ask if my belongings are at their house. No, they say, nothing to be found. Could it be at the diner? I call only to be told that nothing was found. The post-bar apartment? No luck. The bar? Nothing. I try to ‘FindMyiPhone’ my phone, only to find that it is dead, so the app doesn’t work. WHAT IS THE POINT OF THE APP IF IT DOESN’T WORK WITH A DEAD PHONE?! Questions I have for Apple.
So here we are. Me, myself, and I, phoneless, cardless, ID-less, and dignity-less. How is this humanly possible? This isn’t real life. I am not about this life. I went four months abroad without losing anything and here I am without everything.
So how do you lose all of your important things in one night? Without even realizing it. Just like that.
-Part fiction and part nonfiction.
XOXO GOSSIP GIRL